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."

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.

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.