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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Squeaky Bagel Blowout

So, a Brazilian Blowout.
They give you bagels.
After a quick stop at Starbucks immediately following which I get into a row with a grouchy overheated traffic cop, I arrive at the salon. Right smack on time.
I am wearing Mr. Paul's Seabee denim maxi-dress from "South Pacific" which I always wear when I want to be comfortable or when I know people are going to be fiddling with my head and potentially making it look necessary in ways I will not want to muck up by squeezing it through the collar of my Rainbow Brite T-shirt.
I am complimented at once on my shirt. By several people. I refer them to the VA Rep costume shop. The salon is filled with hair stylists. All of whom are wearing a nice white summer capri. Must be a rule. I give Beth her cappuccino and meet the lady who is going to be blowing me out like a Brazilian. I have forgotten her name, but she was lovely and reminded me of Desiree Dabney and was dressed like a very very chic panda-penguin. I told her I really liked her skirt. She told me it was too tight.
My hair is washed. Beth is instructed to wash it to the point it's actually squeaky. So I lie there for a while. It feels great. Thanks to John Moon, now both my hair and my car have been washed six times in a row in under thirty minutes. Beth tells me a story about an enchanting lady in her life- referred to as either Queen or Princess Kathy (I can't remember which royal title- I didn't have my glasses on and I can't hear without my glasses). Queen Princess Kathy once refused reward money for returning someone's Golden Retriever. She has also been spotted sitting on a patio with a random wild bird off the streets perched on her finger and heard to say, "I think this finch has a fever." On top of that, she is an avid supporter of theater in Richmond. She is clearly awesome.
Sterling pops in just as I am zoning out staring at this enormous portrait of a lady sitting down criss-cross applesauce painted by Alex Whiteway to see if my hair is clean enough. Beth rubs her hands over my scalp. It squeaks inside my brain. I have never had that happen before. Not sure it was pleasant. Felt like I imagine that long gray-haired scientist felt in "Independence Day" when the alien got into his mind and showed him a full-scale slideshow of the destruction of the world.
Clean enough.
I peep longingly at the bagel box as I am escorted to the main salon floor. I want one, but I figure one shouldn't keep a herd of pedicured women all wearing the same pants waiting. Who knows what kind of club that is.
I pop up on my wonderful red leather squishy barber chair. I've raved about these chairs before. I place my script in my lap and remove my glasses. I am intent on absorbing some of these lines for my role as impish French minx Fabienne while I get my hurr did, but that doesn't last. I am soon distracted by the speech Panda-Penguin is giving as she applied gunk to my hair. She is holding up an enormously tall golden bottle as big around as my calf for the room to see. This is the magic Brazilian juice, it seems. This bottle costs seven million dollars. Everyone talks about math for a little while and tries to figure out how many blowouts one would have to inflict on customers in order for the golden bottle of magical juice to pay for itself. I stop listening then because I only get excited about math when my father has explained it to me in such a way that I feel I'm a conquering warrior princess whenever I manage to solve for "x." Panda-Penguin slides her glasses into my lap. Okay. I'll hold your glasses too. Or maybe she thinks they are mine. No matter, she's lecturing. Five minutes later she pauses in her speech.
"Where are your glasses?"
I hold up the pair she has handed me.
"Oh, these aren't mine. I thought they might be yours and you wanted me to hold them for you."
Nope.
"You have to wear glasses while you get a Brazilian Blowout. But it's ok. You can wear yours. You're reading anyway."
Apparently it is on trend to wear glasses to the hair salon. And people become very curious when they see you doing just that. People will start to think, "I wonder what procedure she's getting done that requires her to wear glasses." Then they too will want to look cool wearing glasses in a red leather chair with a cape across their front and be willing to sacrifice buying a home or six cars in favor of having a Brazilian Blowout for themselves.
I start listening again when someone throws a porcupine at my left ear. Turns out it was just this wooden bristly brush- but no one warned me. I don't want one of those brushes. I did for a second when Panda-Penguin was offering them as prizes in a desperate attempt to get any one of the Capri Team to say a single word. Changed my mind.
She is talking again now about the benefits of blowing it out Brazilian-style. These are not harmful chemicals being sizzled into my hair, she is saying. This potion is so expensive because its ingredients are the best of the earth: coconut snot, secretions of newborn Persian kittens, etc.
I say that I think the flat iron being used is a very nice one and am immediately strongly discouraged from getting one for myself- "No. You don't need this. You'd burn all your hair off."
Okay.
Beth is standing in front of the bagel station asking insightful questions. Sterling is somewhere in the room doing the same, but I cannot see him. I think he might be like Nightcrawler from X-Men. Just popping in and out as needed. He definitely changed shirts halfway through my hair appointment for reasons that remain unclear.
I glare at the lady who is not only wearing white capris but also a white top because she is rudely talking to her friend while Panda-Penguin is lecturing on split ends over the whirring of the hair dryer. She catches me glaring. Her friend, I can tell, feels properly chastised. The original offender does not. I look out the widow at a man swinging his daughter by the ankle instead.
A hair dryer needs to be set on cool blue and held at least two inches from my scalp in order to diffuse the amino acids from the potion into the roots of my neural canal. Or something. In case you guys want to try this at home.
After my hair has been treated, blown dry, and straightened, they get it wet again. This almost makes me want to cry on their behalf because dealing with my hair once takes forever, let alone twice on purpose. But everyone remains stoic. I stare at Alex Whiteway's painting some more. This time past the counter I do snag a bagel. A beautiful yellow egg bagel the like of which I have missed since my days at William & Mary and was just pining for yesterday at a Bodo's in Charlottesville- and here it was.
The gentleman- Brian, I think- who is in charge of this whole experience and has one very curly lash on his left upper eyelid comments to the room that "the model looks afraid to eat her bagel." Please. I mutter, "I am not afraid."
"She's not afraid!" He says to the room. They all laugh in a wave several times over, then it fades out awkwardly like that scene with Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers."*
So, with half my hair done, photos taken for future reference, the curious pack of white-panted ladies leave the salon. Panda-Penguin applies the blowout liquid to the other half of my head and she and Beth chat while Sterling lies face down and screams through small holes in the floor to someone in the basement who may or may not have been imaginary.
My hair is now very sleek, smooth, and mostly straight. I feel like my head has shrunk.  You may have trouble recognizing me. If it doesn't go into a topknot with ease, I may cut it all off, but I have been gifted a bag of golden tubes of blowout goo with which to maintain my sleek new look should I choose to do so.
Thank you, Sterling and Beth. For both bagels and blowout. I'll be back.

*I adore Dr. Evil and will be him for Halloween some year.

Private Seething

I sat in a basement this afternoon for three hours around a table bathed in candlelight with some actors and read a play.
I'm not clear at this time on what happened in that play.
I am confident clarity will arrive by the time we start doing this play for audiences. I have asked for a small tan rabbit as a prop.
Lesson of the afternoon- when rinsing your coffee mug after having been forced to dissolve half a chocolate bar into the coffee to lend it a semblance of sweetness, do take care to thoroughly rinse. Otherwise unsuspecting people trying to clean may glance down into said mug and think it's full of poop.
Last night I saw a concert. Under a pointy white metal tent. The concert was very well done. I sat in the farthest rear of the ampitheater on a concrete slab because I'd rather get digested by a crocodile than stand amid the crush of concert-goers down near the stage. The group performing sang a song about side ponytails. While it was being sung, I watched a girl remove her boyfriend's hair from his man-bun and rearrange it into the hairstyle being suggested. Then I didn't care about that anymore because a stage hand boogied out onto stage holding a gigantic inflatable pony and my jaw involuntarily dropped for the first time in my life.
I met a South African woman named Thimbekele who was awesome. She had not seen her mother for ten years until a few weeks ago when she took her son on a trip to Johannesburg to meet his grandmother for the first time. Thimbekele was calm and jolly. She agreed that too much air-conditioning is not okay.
I met a blue-shirted boy named Beau. He was also jolly- jolly and engaging. Very eager to learn about his dinner companions and see that everyone had all the drinks they needed.
I participated in FaceTime for the FirstTime. That was a good experience. A girl slept in horn-rimmed glasses with her hands folded stiffly over her phone against her chest like a still vampire at the same time.
I saw the word "Chrisley" for the first time.
It's so hot.

Hair Splinters And The Long-Crotched

Today I went to Target.
With my mother. I love my mother. Most people do. Except for those people who haven't been born yet and those who have yet to meet her. She is loving and oh, so patient and kind and generous and selfless and always somehow aware of when I need new toothpaste and loofahs and could use a trip to Target.
Now. Target is usually thebomb.com. Margaret Roop and I can spend days in Target. I know many of my friends feel the same way. However, I must confess myself to be a little disappointed in Target's items as of late. Usually I find six hats, four T-shirts, nine candy bars, and three or four backpacks that I absolutely need on any given trip. Not so lately. I feel the latest round of women's clothing looks more like draperies for people who are whimsical but also boring. Zero fascinating backpacks = zero backpacks with animals printed on them. There haven't even been any necklaces with rotary telephone or fist-sized spider charms (I have these both- if you're shopping for me).
Today was different. Most likely because my mother is magical shopper when it comes to me. Items she will hold up for my inspection which I would upon first glance hurl to the floor and roll my cart over wind up looking surprisingly suitable on my person.
I even found........a spring hat. Well, my mother did. And, as I say above, I scoffed at first. Then I perched it on my head and went off to the sunglasses section in search of a mirror. Not bad. I return to our cart. An extremely tall woman dressed as Jan Powell glances at me as she passes with her own cart and says to my mother- "Soooooo cute on her!" So we got that.*
We also found some very cute little, erm...shortlets? Shorts with a sleeveless top attached to them. I don't know what these types of clothes are called. But I do know this: these types of clothes are not for we,
The Long-Crotched. Boy howdy. That crotch seam slices neatly into place right at the base of your ribcage. And on top of that, or below that, as it were, the bottom hem of the shorts reveals everything. Navel down.
I am not wearing that.
We did find a dear little dress which I like very much, and which my mother pointed out will look especially cute on me once we get some Neosporin for my skinned knee. Scabs: not in this season.
On the way to the Neosporin aisle, we encounter a tall girl covered in tattoos who stops me mid-monologue about how I am now accomplished enough to put on false eyelashes to say, "I love your hat! That kitten pin! And you know how to put on eyelashes! You're a god!" I smile. She proceeds to point out to me her three kitten tattoos and her one unicorn tattoo which she has because, she says, "I AM a unicorn." So that makes sense. As we part ways, I feel I should be very friendly to her as she has been so friendly to me. I reach around in my mind for what to say as the distance between us grows. Finally it comes to me- "I hope you have a very good day," I say brusquely over my shoulder. So, I don't know. I guess she heard me.
And then tonight- I stood on a green piece of fabric holding a Post-It note in front of Robyn O'Neill and looked, by turns: perplexed, frustrated, surprised, and frightened. John Moon is responsible for this activity as well.
Robyn tells me that she took her youngest daughter to River City Tattoo last night to celebrate her tenth birthday......
To get her ears pierced. Still. That's pretty rad.
Then I found out about hair splinters. Did you know about this? I did not.
Turns out- when hair stylists cut your hair, they cut on an angle.** When the snipped pieces fall to the floor, if you- the stylist- are barefoot or wearing open-toed shoes, those snipped pieces can slide into your flesh as easily as a splinter of wood. And they reportedly hurt. Beth, the talented stylist who was dealing with my hair tonight, tells me, "at any time I could have the hair of up to thirty people inside my body."
So that's a horror movie waiting to happen.
As the cherry on top of the day- I have received an invitation from Beth and my new friend Sterling to come into the salon on Monday and have myself a Brazilian Blowout.*** I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about that.

*After long minutes of detailed surgery with a fork, my knife, and a bobby pin, my mother and I managed to affix my Summer Kitten Face Brooch to my new Summer Hat. I am VERY pleased. So pleased I moved my blue rubber dolphin lamp from my side table to make room for an artful portrait setting for my Summer Hat and my Winter Hat together as a full set.

**I actually did know this because I played Annelle in a production of "Steel Magnolias" once and got to learn the basics of hair cuttery in Jim Morgan's laundry room. Joy Williams used to let me give her trims in the dressing room at Swift Creek Mill after that. I'll cut your hair too.

***Brazilian Blowout: having one's hair infused with a special serum and then blown dry and straightened to achieve a lasting, frizz-free effect. Does not involve having hair ripped violently from your personal area to the tune of a zesty bowel movement, as the name would suggest.

Muddy Boobie

That sounds like a type of fish, doesn't it? I assure you, it's not. Wait- lest I prematurely reassure- let me look that up real quick- I'm right. It's not. I'll tell you what it is though.
Yesterday was Ali Thibodeau's birthday. Because she is a beautiful and creative spirit, she decided she would like to spend part of that day with friends at the river painting. I am included.
I am included because Ali and I are friends. We have been friends for many years. We got to know each other playing two sets of sisters- one set who wore petticoats and ate Mallomars by a fireplace and pretended not to hear Tom whispering in monster voices through a hole in the wall, and one set who frisked around the Jamestown settlement in buckskin mini-dresses and were secretly suspicious of each other.
Once upon a time one of those big theaters downtown did a production of "Pocahontas." I was assistant stage managing the show because I like sneaking around in the dark wearing all black and having the power to give people orders. I was familiar with everyone in the cast with the exception of this tall brown haired girl who could sing like an angel. I accost Chase halfway up the house left aisle during rehearsal one night and demand more information. He fills me in, I discover Ali is a very friendly girl, and so we become acquaintances. Our relationship- as she will tell you- consisted of her passing by en route to make entrances and saying hello to me as I sat in the floor in my black clothes and glasses reading a book and ignoring everyone.
One day, the leading lady of our production is stricken with a nasty back injury. Back injuries are awful.  My mother suffered a back injury when I was about six years old and I distinctly remember feeling terrified that nothing would ever again be OK. This is not to say my mother did not handle this like a champ. This is to say that back injuries will knock you out and I was a six year old with a touch of dramatic flair who would've wailed and rent my garments had she come down with a hangnail.
That said, due to this back injury, our leading lady had to take a weekend off from Poking her Hontas.
The theater definitely didn't want to cancel any shows, but what to do?
Well, after I'd finished whatever book I'd been reading, I'd resorted to watching the show during performances and was fairly confident I could do it. I trot over to find Chase at the offices and tell him my idea. He is dubious. The next show is in three hours.
I love adrenaline.
It goes off well. High points were getting to wear the softest dress I've ever worn and pretending to pass gracefully away of a terrible fever under the loving and concerned gaze of Richard Koch.*
All this to say- no one was more surprised than Ali Thibodeau when she walked out onstage to do her Act I number and saw me standing boldly atop a fake boulder in full Disney Princess regalia ready for the first scene.
Friends ever since. And I'm so glad.
So the river is high right now. Yesterday especially. We're all sensibly clad for the river- rubber shoes, bathing suits- my giant Kentucky Derby wide-brimmed sun bonnet the one exception. We paint and eat cherries and talk about having siblings. Lucy nibbles on gigantic sheets of seaweed. I get up to rinse my paintbrush in the water and fall right in. I am not surprised. I am by no means Princess Grace of the rapids.** My hat, I am happy to report, had been left smartly back on my pizza backpack, but as I emerge dripping and giggling, I discover all my limbs and my skirt covered in mud. My knee is covered in blood and mud, but the injury regrettably isn't impressive enough to photograph. My charming little sailor-themed bathing suit seems to have escaped the mud, I am thinking, and sit down merrily to continue with my portraiture. An hour passes. I reach over to get a new brush notice my upper right chest feels very stiff. I look down. Entirely covered in bright brown mud is my bathing suit over my right boob. Caked on. Like a mud mask. Stiff and crusty. So, I again place my hat safely on my pizza backpack and return carefully to the water. I sit on a rock and dip my front into the river over and over again. A boy and a girl who have been sunning themselves near us for the past half hour watch unabashedly the entire time. I guess I can't blame them- the physical motion I was repeating is one I don't think I've ever seen performed, but still. They weren't even pretending not to stare. I felt like a display otter.
After the river I take a nap, and then put on some sequins to go continue the birthday festivities at Max's downtown. Matt Shofner is there- we have a passionate conversation about She-Ra and make very special faces at Ali's complimentary cup of birthday pudding before I decide to leave.
I am alerted via text that Mr. Paul is currently chilling with the Rogers-Framer's and that I should come by. I do. I love their house. And they're pretty great as well. I know they're hanging out on the back patio because of Tim Framer's unfailingly vigilant selfie postage. So I go round back. Georgia and Tim have a big white fence which is much taller than I between their driveway and the alley. Knowing they know I'm coming, I poke as much of my face as I can through the shadowy gap in the fence. I can see Mr. Paul and Georgia on the porch. I say, "I have come over."
Georgia's face falls into a look of horror. I grin. She's funny. But as seconds pass, I notice neither she or Mr. Paul is moving from their chairs to let me in. Both just staring. This must be a fence I can open myself. I scrabble with the latch and push on the gate. It scrapes along the pavement but doesn't unhook. I peer back through the fence. They are unmoving. Looks of horror firmly  in place. I grin. "I can see your faces," I say.
Still no one moves. This is getting weird.....suddenly Georgia starts from her chair and begins to call for Tim. Mr. Paul leaps up and starts down the porch stairs toward the fence. "It's Audra!" he says, chuckling. Georgia gasps and sinks back into her chair. "Audra!" she shouts across the yard, "I thought you were a crack whore!!!" ***
I am given a tour of the basement- which is gonna be sick for parties, and we eat pizza and stromboli.
Great friends. Bloody knee.
Good day.

*Loving and concerned: Trying not to laugh and wishing his character could've passed away instead so he could have had the opportunity to write secret messages on his eyelids for his scene partner to read as he/she is supposed to be standing in reverent silence over the body of the recently deceased.

**One time, my friend Sam and I actually thought we might die in these rapids. Which is notable mostly because at the time, we were standing in maybe six inches of water.

***Upon viewing the gate from the vantage point of the porch (it's bathed in shadow and even my whole nose through the crack would not have been enough physical info for a solid ID), and knowing now that Georgia was not in fact informed I was coming over, I can see why this makes sense. And a crack whore pressing her face against your fence late at night and saying things like, "I have come over" and "I can see your faces" is probably not soothing.

Three, Four....Six

Tonight I took my car through the car wash. I took my car through the car wash six times.
I know things about the color gradient of Bug-B-Gone as backlit by street lamp which you probably do not know.
John Moon, you see, decided it would be a lot of fun to see how many times I could drive my car through a car wash in a pencil skirt before having a nervous breakdown. Six. Six times.
Luckily, he got the whole thing on film.
After wrapping up said nervous breakdown, I reward myself with a honey bun, a bag of the small hard Cheetos, and a Dr. Pepper.
My new friend Sterling perches next to me on the concrete base of a lamp post while I drink my Dr. Pepper. Sterling is fascinating.
Sterling has a salon in Shockoe Bottom. It is called Shockoe Salon. Inside Shockoe Salon there are squishy red leather barber chairs. I may have mentioned these chairs before. Sitting in one makes one feel very prestigious. Once, when standing outside of his salon having a smoke, a giant fish fell from the sky right at Sterling's feet. Upon examination, Sterling realized that something had been eating this fish only moments prior. God, a bird, or a dinosaur would be my guesses. Moments later Sterling sees a bald eagle alight atop his salon and glare down at his sizable dropped crumb. I don't know what Sterling did with the fish. I did verify that a photo was taken of the fish before the incident drew to a close.
And then yesterday Sterling was out fishing with his son. As we know, people sometimes catch weird and unexpected things while fishing- my brother Scott caught an eel once, and in the movies people are always catching boots. Yesterday Sterling caught a goose. I love that. Said goose was just achieving lift off from the water's surface when Sterling's cast hooked it in the foot. I was horrified at first upon hearing of this- imagining the wrath of  a goose when it actually had reason to be wrathful. And there was reportedly lots of thrashing and squalling, but, once the goose was reeled in to the side of the boat, it acquiesced with perfect graciousness to having the hook removed from its foot. Sterling did not take a photo of this occasion. Some people.
Sterling tells me tonight during our chat that the new hair salon apprentice he has brought on- Beth- needs some heads of hair to practice haircuts on. He says, "and your hair is perfect because she can't do anything to it." I'm sitting here still trying to think what he means by this. Either a. it's so lovely even an accidentally erroneous cut would be unable to mar the sleekness and shine of my coiffure, or b. it's such a nest of terrors and rawhide that even if she tried to buzz cut me, no one would notice. Probably the latter. Either way, I'm pumped. I (and the invitation was extended to my friends as well, so if you are those, holler) get to go sit in the red leather thrones and have my hair experimented upon by Beth. Beth is a lovely pixie girl who looks like she stepped directly from the pages of a vintage catalog of cool chicks in capris. Sterling promises he can fix anything unsightly which may result.
For those of you who may have been wondering - Days Three and Four were somewhat eventful. I have a story all crafted in my head - the central character of which is a lonely little abandoned watermelon named Wallace- but this story will have to wait until another time. As a teaser- there will be golden shoes, men of medium height with very square, very hard shoulders covered in stripes, many flights of blue stairs, surprise bags filled to the brim with perfectly rounded limes, walking briskly and covertly with purpose, and the lesson of putting Jenga away in its container the wrong way first to the tune of siblings dressed up like the Men In Black telling jokes about breakfast sandwiches and speaking in tongues.
Things I learned Days 1-4:
1. If you wear a kitten T-Shirt, I will remember and ask you about it one year later.
2. It doesn't matter what berry it is if it's covered in chocolate.
3. Fruit Roll-Ups still exist.
4. It is difficult for a grown man and short woman working together to break a LifeSaver mint in half.
5. Always have Desiree Roots sing "Wade in the Water" surrounded by dancing swan children and supported by a full choir and band, one of whom may have been David Ruffin.
6. You are safe behind the trash can.
7. Hanging from the ceiling in silky fabric now joins the list of things to do for my birthday this year- along with getting locked in a room full of clues on the topic of getting out and trying on false hair for hours at a large yellow building on Chamberlayne Avenue.
You're invited.

Day Two. Handled.

Day II.
Rather uneventful morning. Fully prepared for and expecting eventful, I went so far as to shower before I left on my walk to the theater this morning.
When I arrive, I immediately eat an entire box of pretzels and set a medical record for fastest human temperature shift from sweaty mess to solid block of ice. I've got my burgundy hoodie Mr. Brendan fancies, so I'm alright, but I cut Mr. Paul a look and am considering approaching to investigate how much paperwork would go into potentially adjusting the thermostat, but I stop in my tracks when he cuts me an even sharper look. It is then I notice he is wearing a new teal bandanna. Mr. Paul has an impressive array of bandannas. As I've seen him every single day for the past three years, I've seen most of them. Teal is new. I don't know which mood teal signifies. Mood bandannas. I back away.*
I wander out onto the stage where I sit next to Mr. Brendan. We watch, transfixed, as two slight young ladies in black spandex I-am-in-shape-and-do-something-athletic-for-a-living attire wriggle their way gracefully up enormous sheets of blue fabric to the ceiling. These are aerial silk artists. I turn to Mr. Brendan.
"What's that fabric?"
Mr. Brendan looks at me.
I go get a cup of coffee.
Once we establish that the silkists** are safely able to slide 900 feet down 900 yards of fabric at 900 miles an hour without setting their inner thighs on fire from the friction, I am dismissed to go home for the day.
[Sidenote: The silkists are part of a group called "Host of Sparrows." They are my charges today, along with the Adult Choir (more on them later). The "Host of Sparrows" are lovely to work with and it's no small bonus that all day I privately considered myself Lady Miss Audra of House Sparrow, thanks to their moniker.]
While I'm at home, I make a short film of myself pretending to play bingo and email it to some people.
[Sidenote: I have very relevant and recent bingo experience thanks to Mr. Paul and his Nanny. Mr. Paul's Nanny lives in an assisted living community here in town and once weekly the residents engage in bingo. Mr. Paul invites me to go play. So I do. I think I am in for a relaxing, diverting evening and hopeful for one of those cookies you can wear on your finger like an engagement ring. I am INCORRECT. Know- those of you who also make such erroneous assumptions- that assisted living bingo at this establishment is no joke. There is cold hard cash. Over one hundred players. Row upon row of tables full of people whose faces you never see. They are face-to-the-card focused. Bingo is run by a wheelchair bound bespectacled woman with sweet red ringlets and a doughy looking face. She is barking pleasantries into a microphone to all the attendees and filling them in on which flavor cobblers she picked up at the bazaar last weekend when suddenly, there's a buzz at the door. Her head whips to the left. Her voice instantaneously drops two octaves and she roars through the glass sliding doors at the wizened gentlemen on his motorized cart who has just pressed the buzzer to gain access to bingo- "NOT TODAY NORMAN! NOT TODAY! YOU'RE TWO MINUTES LATE! TURN AROUND. TURN AROUND!!!" It was one of the most nerve-wracking nights of my life.]
Anyway. I'm eating whipped coconut yogurt out of a bin on my couch when I receive a call from the theater.
It turns out the Adult Choir has had the unmitigated gall to show up to play practice.
Unannounced. (Scheduling mix-up.) I am needed at once to come down there and handle them.
Now. This Adult Choir consists entirely of my friends: Katrinah, Jessi, Karla, Todd, William, Anthony Cosby-Knowles, Durron. I'm not stressed. I mean, I can handle Durron.
[Sidenote: There's a whole other story coming soon on why that last statement is entirely a lie. There may be multiple installments.]
I go. I handle.
Following the rehearsal, everyone leaves except for the staff and crew, who meet in a long hardwood floored room to rehash the evening's events. Many excellent and important points are made over the course of this meeting, but the biggest physical and vocal reaction from the group by far came when it was revealed that, over the course of the day, someone had misplaced their lunch.
Gasps, moans, people jerking upright where they had been hunched listening intently in their chairs. Sympathetic sighs and looks. Slow shakes of heads side to side as if to deny that anything like this could have happened. Warning glances pass around the room in case it wasn't an accident and there is a guilty party who might be thinking of striking again. It takes the room a full minute to settle. When it does, things resume. The leader of this meeting is an excellent and impassioned leader who I will wish to my dying day I could see play Catherine in "Proof" at Barksdale Willow Lawn one more time. She is speaking on the importance of responsibility and focus. The failure of whipped coconut yogurt to nutritionally cut the mustard is to blame for the fact that I ironically choose this moment to become completely distracted by Mr. Paul's emergency room grade metal clipboard. It seems to have two strips of black Velcro running lengthwise down the back. If I got get that clipboard out of his hands right now and throw it against a wall, will it stick? Does he do that at home? It would be hard not to throw it like a Frisbee. I hate throwing Frisbee. I'm not good at it. Bruises my wrist. Like golfing. But I love golfing....
The meeting is over.

*For the record, all Mr. Paul's bandannas with the exception of this one seem to signify nothing but the biggest, kindest, most generous, trustworthy, and reliable heart there is. This temperature issue merely exists because Mr. Paul, like most people, has blood in his veins and can feel comfortable at normal temperatures whereas I am a reptile who needs you to carry a fleece blanket in your trunk for when we ride to class together. I'm gonna get him a bandanna with polka dots and see what happens then.

**Tony Foley calls them "silkists." I don't think that's the technically proper term, but I like it very much.

Day One Of Four

This morning I was pleased to awaken wearing my favorite shorts. The night before, you see, I hid them in my sleep, and was very put out with myself. I talked and walked a lot in my sleep when I was younger, and once went so far as to awaken and thoroughly creep out a bedfellow by unconsciously speaking Parseltongue to the wall.

But to the best of my knowledge, I'd never gone so far as to steal from myself while sleeping, so when I woke up two days ago in not much more than my Honaker Redbud Festival T-Shirt, I was pretty steamed.

I found them. Lucky for Audra.

I shower, put on my best Idaho sweatpants for I know it is going to be a long day, and head to the big theater downtown which I can never remember the name of because - like the other two big theaters downtown- it used to have a different name, so now there are six names of big downtown theaters in my brain and really I just remember it's this one by having people clarify that it's the one right near the 7-11.
Mosqtria? Altriosque? The Centpenter? The Novempire. 

My job today is of the very high stakes variety. I am given a badge on a lanyard. The badge says "ALL ACCESS."*

Tony Foley and I decide we absolutely need Mission: Impossible code names if we are to get through the day in the most dramatic fashion possible. I can't tell you what they are. Mine might be Donut Princess.

We are given high stakes walkie-talkie radio headsets. Sweet! All the better for code name communication. We proceed at once to use our code names solely via text message re. who can loan who the most ibuprofen.

Once I'm all radioed and lanyarded, I am permitted to enter "the lounge," which is code for the group of rooms where we keep lots of cold hummus and pieces of paper reading "NO NUT ZONE."

I know I'll need my wits to be razor sharp today. I've mentally prepared. 

Here she comes. The lady in charge. She has a lanyard too, and a clipboard and a sassy professional hairstyle with good highlights. I square my shoulders and lift my chin- I'm ready for my first assignment.

She stops directly in front of me. 

"Do you....." (She's looking deeply into my eyes like she's going to ask me to perform an appendectomy on someone's unborn child. While that someone is fully conscious.) "think you'd feel comfortable................... slicing up an orange and some strawberries for Desiree Roots?"

Uh. Yes.
This is gonna be great.

I assemble a lovely little plate of fetching fruit slices. I like the knife I use. It's squat and orange.

Eager for my next task, I track down that lady in charge. She is standing behind a red leather sofa with a slight and wiry man who has an enormous spider tattooed on his forearm and exactly 6 white hairs spiking out of the black over his right temple. They are puzzling hard over which people should receive heavy tote bags and which people should receive light tote bags.
I distribute tote bags. In doing so I burn 6,870 calories. I have no idea if there's even a roof in that place.

I find the catering table. I beam at the caterer. Dozens of tiny plastic boxes of Gummi Bears, Non-Pareils, and white-chocolate covered pretzels. Personally I think the boxes are too small. I complain to Mr. Paul. He doesn't do anything about it. 

Mr. Brendan is running around executing fancy tap maneuvers in his sneakers. He's more spry now that his pants have been whip-stitched offstage right next to a hard golden tuffet.

Miss Danae is there as well. Always with her excellent posture and ability to make tennis shoes look dear and petite. I always admire that ability. Whenever I wear sneakers I feel it looks like I've got hippos recently out of spinal surgery on my feet.
Miss Abernathy is there. With her gorgeous and always intricately braided golden hair which I always feel the need to photograph from every angle and then lock myself away for six months trying to replicate on my own head.
Miss Courtney is there with her new daughter. She and Mr. Phil must be very zen at home because this baby is sleeping professionally through sound levels equivalent to a Tyrannosaurus Rex suffering a kidney stone at a death metal concert.
What else do I do on this- Day One?
I smuggle Sierra Mists. Ginnie Willard accuses me of being a hat rack. I watch a movie backwards on a ramp with Joe Doran while we wax nostalgic over tubs of buttercream icing.

It's a good thing I get to go back tomorrow.

*Awkward discovery- when one is seated criss-cross applesauce on the floor at very well-attended production meetings wearing just such a badge and one glances down to realize one's torso and current posture are exactly in line to allow said badge to dangle like a label directly in front of one's crotch, one should IMMEDIATELY either sit up straighter or flip that badge around to one's back lest this lewd label be read and believed.**

**Obviously one should first secretly snap a photo of this situation because this will be a very funny photo for later on Instagram.***

***Rats. One realizes one certainly may not post this photo to Instagram due to the nature of the event one is working. Oh well.