The newspaperwoman shifts in her seat on the stair and aims her burgundy legging-clad knees more directly in my direction. She is displeased with the brevity of my answer to her previous question, I can tell by the wrinkling of the inch of skin between her eyes, and is now determined to really probe. "But come on, Audra. What's it been like? What's the most intriguing part of doing Harpo in the shower?"
I clear my throat. Lady, I am so not going to answer that.
Ever gallant, David jumps in to save me and provides our interviewer with an insightful and meaningful reply regarding the Marx Brothers and personal character development and yadda yadda yadda....my mind wanders. I wonder if they have those delicious little sunflower seed nuggets RL just brought to rehearsal in Richmond as well....probably at Ellwood Thompson's....
Rehearsals have been going well. My duties in this show include: tap dancing, rapping incredibly slowly, zipping up a banana while wearing a vacant expression, cradling a chicken, and performing a rectal examination on a bicycle. You can see, I'm sure, why I was cast.
I did experience a moment of severe displeasure two days ago. It was announced that there will be a gong in this show and.....a member of the cast will be called upon to bang it. I am elated. Salivating. I have risen involuntarily to the tips of my toes and drawn breath to volunteer myself as Gongess when I hear our wonderful director John say, "....and Taylor will be ringing the gong."
I mean. I wasn't even permitted to audition. I glower across the stage at Taylor. He shrugs sheepishly and mouths, "We can take turns!"
My scowl must've been evident, for rehearsal remains at a standstill while I am fed some rigamarole about my not being allowed to bang the gong due to the logistics of costume changes and assigned entrances and exits, etc. No one seems to understand that I would happily enter and perform an entire tap number sans pants entirely if it meant I got to whack a gong while pretending to be a genie offstage right.
You'll be pleased to hear that I overcame my disappointment and continued with the production.
Today I am practicing my chopstick scoot dance behind the set with David when we are summoned to the stage to work on a tango. Remembering how nicely things worked out when I stored my prop dagger in my topknot during a production I was in one day of "THE CMPLT WRKS OF WLM SKSPRE," I jam my chopsticks into my bun and, pleased with my resourcefulness, trot out and directly into a snug tango hold with Melodie. What I don't know- unfortunately for Cliff- is that the choreography for this number includes his standing directly behind me as we double-team-tango Melodie, but- fortunately for Cliff- I realize the potential for disaster just in time and whip the chopsticks out of my bun before they smoothly implant themselves deeply inside his nasal cavities.
So that's fine. I slip the sticks into the back pocket of my jeans instead.
Twenty seconds later: "So Audra, now you'll crawl downstage on all fours and wait for Melodie to be dipped over your back."
I'm crawling, smiling, enjoying myself. Cliff is tango-ing Melodie in my direction and preparing to drop her in a deep dip over my back. Suddenly he hisses, "Watch your chopsticks!"
Fine. Chopsticks are removed and placed somewhere which I secretly can't remember but certainly is not back where they were supposed to go on the props shelf, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when I get to rehearsal early to find my chopsticks before we start the run and everyone finds out that Audra was irresponsible with her props. Bottom line is, both Cliff's frontal lobe and Melodie's lower spine remain firmly intact.
The same cannot be said for my lower spine but that's neither here nor there and suffice to say that the next time I pop out of a fireplace in a sprightly and surprising manner I will know to squat way lower.
Moreso than any of this, though- it must be noted that there exists in this beautiful town an event called.....
Ready?
I don't think you are.....
THE PAPOOSE CLUB HOLIDAY BAZAAR.
So. I'll be at that. And likely broke immediately following.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Thursday, November 24, 2016
IDAHONAKER - 2. Showering
Ezra Pound was born in this house.
I did some research. His full name being Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, he was born in Hailey, Idaho- perhaps in the very room I slept in last night- in 1885. He studied lots of stuff and then moved to Europe where he became a very accomplished and admired poet- known primarily for his development of Imagism- which upon learning I first assumed was misspelled, but it's not. Ironically, turns out Imagism stresses clarity and precision of language. It stems from ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry. All this leads me to believe we'd have gotten on swimmingly. We could sit around and criticize people's spelling errors and eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and sushi to our hearts content. If you delve further, you learn that Ezra married some chick named Dorothy Shakespeare (I'm researching her later tonight) and had two kids- a boy and a girl, only one of which could seemingly be bothered to take his last name. He's also got some outstanding facial hair and some very attractive headshots. But. Intriguing as all this may be, none of it leads me to believe that at any point in his long and fascinating life was he forced to undergo the strain and stress of showering upstairs in his own home.
Now- before I launch into my showering debacle, I must first rave. This house is fantastic. It's old as tombs and made of white boards and wrought iron fences. There's an enchanting either apple or chubby green cherry tree adjacent to the curling front walk. Sprinkled with snow. It's riddled with parlors and settees and hardwood floors and shelf upon shelf of old and important books. High blue ceilings, brown velveteen throw pillows, closets stuffed with puffy and soft quilts. A floor to ceiling ancient iron and silver potbellied stove from Detroit Stove Works which we are absolutely not allowed to use but I really don't know what you'd practically use it for anyway unless you were incinerating a body or a cow. A Poptart would lie lonely and alone in its depthless bowels. So, again- this place is fantastic. Not to mention its being pre-stocked with all the toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, butter, and Drano that a girl could wish for. I'm happy as a clam snuggled into a jar of peanut butter. But.
The shower. The shower takes place in the bathroom. Which is upstairs. I entered the bathroom last night for the first time. This is how it went down....
The white, pearly doorknob is cold under my hand. I twist and push. The dark wooden door creaks open. My hands press to my cheeks as I take in the black iron towel rack standing as tall as I and the deep white sink. There's an armchair. A window looking out onto the snowy mountains. I am thinking I am really going to enjoy spending perhaps most of the next five weeks in this bathroom when I turn to take in what will no doubt be the transcendent sight of the toilet when I see it. The sign. The framed, bolded, 50 point font sign upon the toilet featuring your INSTRUCTIONS. I lean cautiously forward. Most people, I feel, don't need instructions on using the toilet past their third year of life. I, at least, had pretty much memorized what to do by that point.
"Water damage in the master bathroom will be disastrous to the dining room wallpaper. Please use extra caution."
So. Extra caution in using the toilet? I decide to assume they mean the shower and thereby relieve myself of having to imagine the epic toilet misdemeanors which could have resulted in the rooms being damaged an entire floor below.
I am pleased to report I use the toilet without having to call the fire department and then boldly turn my attention to the shower. It's one of those clawfoot tubs which stands entirely apart from the wall. It's got white curtains and liners on both sides of the tub. I figure this is a quality precaution and that I may well succeed at this without much difficulty. In I leap.
After I regain consciousness and pick myself up from the floor of the tub I stand dripping and reeling with the knowledge that there does indeed exist in the world a shower with stronger water pressure than Robyn and Ginnie O'Willard's. Fortunately, I have experience with that shower and so may be up to the challenge. It's no small feat to successfully wield razor and loofah all while keeping upright under the poundin deluge and having at least one hand over all your tenderest parts at all times. I check over my shoulder ever twenty seconds to verify that the two liners are indeed meeting at the back of the tub so no water will escape. It's going well. As the steam gathers though, the rubber plastic liners start sucking into the center of the tub. The shower becomes narrower and narrower until I start to feel a hair claustrophobic and like I'm showering inside of a condom or the slit of a Kleenex box. I try to think more positively about the situation. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe instead of the previous two likenings, I rather resemble naked wet angel with a messy topknot madly flapping her latex wings as she is buffeted down from heaven during a particularly powerful thunderstorm. Either way, I'm exhausted. Suddenly, the hot water fades. Panic. I cram myself into the space between the front shower pole and the spray and wash as quickly as I can. Done. I whip back the curtain with a flourish. Rather proud of myself and certain in the knowledge that I will refrain from sweating for the next five weeks to spare myself going through that again. Climb out onto the white puffy rug. Have nearly finished toweling off when I notice a glint of light to my left. I squint. Oh no. Oh no. It's light reflecting off of a PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. I wrench my towel from my body and fall to my knees frantically sopping up the water. I sit back panting. Thinking crabbily in my mind that if you were so concerned about water damage, then why put an oriental carpet in the bathroom and line the room below with golden and mahogany lion and stag wallpaper embossed with the scrolling script, "The Wilderness Shall Blossom as the Rose," which was probably transplanted from the Captain's quarters on the Mayflower.
Bottom line- I'm clean. And a tougher woman for it. I see why you went to Europe, Ezra.
I did some research. His full name being Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, he was born in Hailey, Idaho- perhaps in the very room I slept in last night- in 1885. He studied lots of stuff and then moved to Europe where he became a very accomplished and admired poet- known primarily for his development of Imagism- which upon learning I first assumed was misspelled, but it's not. Ironically, turns out Imagism stresses clarity and precision of language. It stems from ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry. All this leads me to believe we'd have gotten on swimmingly. We could sit around and criticize people's spelling errors and eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and sushi to our hearts content. If you delve further, you learn that Ezra married some chick named Dorothy Shakespeare (I'm researching her later tonight) and had two kids- a boy and a girl, only one of which could seemingly be bothered to take his last name. He's also got some outstanding facial hair and some very attractive headshots. But. Intriguing as all this may be, none of it leads me to believe that at any point in his long and fascinating life was he forced to undergo the strain and stress of showering upstairs in his own home.
Now- before I launch into my showering debacle, I must first rave. This house is fantastic. It's old as tombs and made of white boards and wrought iron fences. There's an enchanting either apple or chubby green cherry tree adjacent to the curling front walk. Sprinkled with snow. It's riddled with parlors and settees and hardwood floors and shelf upon shelf of old and important books. High blue ceilings, brown velveteen throw pillows, closets stuffed with puffy and soft quilts. A floor to ceiling ancient iron and silver potbellied stove from Detroit Stove Works which we are absolutely not allowed to use but I really don't know what you'd practically use it for anyway unless you were incinerating a body or a cow. A Poptart would lie lonely and alone in its depthless bowels. So, again- this place is fantastic. Not to mention its being pre-stocked with all the toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, butter, and Drano that a girl could wish for. I'm happy as a clam snuggled into a jar of peanut butter. But.
The shower. The shower takes place in the bathroom. Which is upstairs. I entered the bathroom last night for the first time. This is how it went down....
The white, pearly doorknob is cold under my hand. I twist and push. The dark wooden door creaks open. My hands press to my cheeks as I take in the black iron towel rack standing as tall as I and the deep white sink. There's an armchair. A window looking out onto the snowy mountains. I am thinking I am really going to enjoy spending perhaps most of the next five weeks in this bathroom when I turn to take in what will no doubt be the transcendent sight of the toilet when I see it. The sign. The framed, bolded, 50 point font sign upon the toilet featuring your INSTRUCTIONS. I lean cautiously forward. Most people, I feel, don't need instructions on using the toilet past their third year of life. I, at least, had pretty much memorized what to do by that point.
"Water damage in the master bathroom will be disastrous to the dining room wallpaper. Please use extra caution."
So. Extra caution in using the toilet? I decide to assume they mean the shower and thereby relieve myself of having to imagine the epic toilet misdemeanors which could have resulted in the rooms being damaged an entire floor below.
I am pleased to report I use the toilet without having to call the fire department and then boldly turn my attention to the shower. It's one of those clawfoot tubs which stands entirely apart from the wall. It's got white curtains and liners on both sides of the tub. I figure this is a quality precaution and that I may well succeed at this without much difficulty. In I leap.
After I regain consciousness and pick myself up from the floor of the tub I stand dripping and reeling with the knowledge that there does indeed exist in the world a shower with stronger water pressure than Robyn and Ginnie O'Willard's. Fortunately, I have experience with that shower and so may be up to the challenge. It's no small feat to successfully wield razor and loofah all while keeping upright under the poundin deluge and having at least one hand over all your tenderest parts at all times. I check over my shoulder ever twenty seconds to verify that the two liners are indeed meeting at the back of the tub so no water will escape. It's going well. As the steam gathers though, the rubber plastic liners start sucking into the center of the tub. The shower becomes narrower and narrower until I start to feel a hair claustrophobic and like I'm showering inside of a condom or the slit of a Kleenex box. I try to think more positively about the situation. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe instead of the previous two likenings, I rather resemble naked wet angel with a messy topknot madly flapping her latex wings as she is buffeted down from heaven during a particularly powerful thunderstorm. Either way, I'm exhausted. Suddenly, the hot water fades. Panic. I cram myself into the space between the front shower pole and the spray and wash as quickly as I can. Done. I whip back the curtain with a flourish. Rather proud of myself and certain in the knowledge that I will refrain from sweating for the next five weeks to spare myself going through that again. Climb out onto the white puffy rug. Have nearly finished toweling off when I notice a glint of light to my left. I squint. Oh no. Oh no. It's light reflecting off of a PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. I wrench my towel from my body and fall to my knees frantically sopping up the water. I sit back panting. Thinking crabbily in my mind that if you were so concerned about water damage, then why put an oriental carpet in the bathroom and line the room below with golden and mahogany lion and stag wallpaper embossed with the scrolling script, "The Wilderness Shall Blossom as the Rose," which was probably transplanted from the Captain's quarters on the Mayflower.
Bottom line- I'm clean. And a tougher woman for it. I see why you went to Europe, Ezra.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Idahonaker.
Today I flew across the country to purchase sweatpants.
I may do other things as well while I'm here- such as tap dance, comb the mountains looking for moose, and goggle at the bright, bright stars- but mostly, I'm here for the sweatpants.
I wake up this morning in Virginia at 2:32 AM when the undercarriage of my bed starts shifting around. I'm too tired to be concerned, so instead of rolling over, I lie there and wait to see what imposter or boogy-creature pops up.
It's my cat. Suprise. Spelled as such because that is how it's usually pronounced.
I'm flattered, and cuddle Suprise until it's time to get up and go.
In line at the airport, I scrutinize the dimples on a baby's knuckles. I love a good dimply baby. But I'm confused. When the hands of a baby are plump enough to have knuckle dimples, the dimples seem to fall directly atop where the knuckle bone would be. It seems to me that the dimples would fall in the valleys betwixt the knuckles. But what do I know about baby fist cartilage.
Upon boarding the plane, I am delighted to discover that there are touchscreen TVs affixed to the backs of all the seats. More so, I am thrilled to find that an option on this touch screen TV is the sequel to "Independence Day." Which I've been really wanting to see for months. I missed it at the Byrd awhile ago and seethed for a solid three minutes about that. I contentedly watch Jeff Goldblum be attractively intelligent and a small gaggle of highly accomplished fourteen year old fighter pilots attempt to save Bill Pullman all the way to Atlanta and only convince myself to leave the plane in the middle of the movie secure in the knowledge that I'll be able to continue the film on my next flight.
If you're ever curious- Concourse F at the Atlanta airport is located just three miles south of Houston. Got plenty of exercise traipsing briskly between terminals. Rode the moving walkways much of the time. I like those. I stop and take a photo of a huge ceramic cat figurine composed entirely of tiny ceramic cat figurines. I am very eager to show it to my friends. But, I sadly discover, my phone deletes the photo immediately because it contracted some virus a few months ago when I irresponsibly tried to order cookies in the middle of the night from a less than respectable website.
I board my flight to Salt Lake City. My eyes widen when I discover that my magical seat back TV isn't functioning properly and so HOW am I going to finish the sequel to "Independence Day" which I really wasn't enjoying at all. I search for, locate, and press the Call button. I watch the girl sitting next to me take a nap by resting her head on her dinner tray. I am told by the flight attendant responding to my distress call that I may take one of the vacant seats in the back of the plane so that I may discover if Will Smith really isn't going to be in the movie after all.
I change seats.
I eat four Twizzlers.
I finish the movie and watch consider ordering from the touch screen menu a platter of cheese cubes and jelly packets for $49.99. I decide instead on watching "Father of the Bride." Which is good every single time.
I land in Salt Lake City. I disembark. I notice outside the window beautiful and scenic snowy mountains. I don't care because I didn't order the cheese cubes and jelly and am hungry and cranky as a result. I follow signs to my next assigned terminal. I sit in this terminal for 3 hours because it's snowing in Sun Valley and we have to wait and see if we are going to fly straight there or fly somewhere entirely different and take a bus for hours and hours. I buy Hannah a Christmas present. I stare at a wall full of books for a long time trying to decide if any of them tickle my fancy to the point I should purchase one. I settle on a book about the making of "The Princess Bride."
Finally, we board a wee, thin and spiny aircraft with no TVs to be found and fly for an hour. The pilot comes over the speaker and whispers very softly - it is never made clear why he whispers - that we might land in Sun Valley and we also might not. We will have to wait and see if the plane in line to land before us makes it successfully. I try to take a nap, but cannot, as now I can see out of the window. Idaho from here looks like a sandbox someone has been doodling in with a silver Sharpie.
We drive around on top of Idaho for half an hour and then, with no word at all from our pilot, descend into the Hailey airport, which could easily be mistaken for a gas station.
I am fetched by our stage manager and driven to my house. It's awesome. It's old and has high high wallpaper embossed with golden lions and flowers on the ceiling. Beautiful stained glass lamps. Sitting rooms, parlors, closets full of toilet paper and quilts, more televisions than make sense, and a snowy front yard boasting a tiny green apple tree blossoming by the sidewalk. It's the birthplace of a poet. Ezra Pound. Books of his work as well as many other novels fill dozens of shelves throughout this place.
I grin until my cheeks hurt - I had forgotten exactly how happy this place makes me - and hustle my buns to the grocery store before I'm due at play practice. In unloading my multiple boxes of cereal, I meet my housemate. Who is lovely. If my friends Sam, Colin, and JS got stirred together, that would be him. We intend to go sit in a hot spring he's read about in one of the pile of brochures in our kitchen.
Rehearsal occurs. I'm late to the proceedings so get three dance numbers tonight. Such good choreography. By brain turns into boiled guinea pig liver at 9:30; it's been many hours since I awoke. Tomorrow we have a Thanksgiving feast. We probably will not infuse our turkey with tequila- as I was advised to do by a young woman in line with me at the grocery store.
I think a turkey would be a fascinating pet.
I may do other things as well while I'm here- such as tap dance, comb the mountains looking for moose, and goggle at the bright, bright stars- but mostly, I'm here for the sweatpants.
I wake up this morning in Virginia at 2:32 AM when the undercarriage of my bed starts shifting around. I'm too tired to be concerned, so instead of rolling over, I lie there and wait to see what imposter or boogy-creature pops up.
It's my cat. Suprise. Spelled as such because that is how it's usually pronounced.
I'm flattered, and cuddle Suprise until it's time to get up and go.
In line at the airport, I scrutinize the dimples on a baby's knuckles. I love a good dimply baby. But I'm confused. When the hands of a baby are plump enough to have knuckle dimples, the dimples seem to fall directly atop where the knuckle bone would be. It seems to me that the dimples would fall in the valleys betwixt the knuckles. But what do I know about baby fist cartilage.
Upon boarding the plane, I am delighted to discover that there are touchscreen TVs affixed to the backs of all the seats. More so, I am thrilled to find that an option on this touch screen TV is the sequel to "Independence Day." Which I've been really wanting to see for months. I missed it at the Byrd awhile ago and seethed for a solid three minutes about that. I contentedly watch Jeff Goldblum be attractively intelligent and a small gaggle of highly accomplished fourteen year old fighter pilots attempt to save Bill Pullman all the way to Atlanta and only convince myself to leave the plane in the middle of the movie secure in the knowledge that I'll be able to continue the film on my next flight.
If you're ever curious- Concourse F at the Atlanta airport is located just three miles south of Houston. Got plenty of exercise traipsing briskly between terminals. Rode the moving walkways much of the time. I like those. I stop and take a photo of a huge ceramic cat figurine composed entirely of tiny ceramic cat figurines. I am very eager to show it to my friends. But, I sadly discover, my phone deletes the photo immediately because it contracted some virus a few months ago when I irresponsibly tried to order cookies in the middle of the night from a less than respectable website.
I board my flight to Salt Lake City. My eyes widen when I discover that my magical seat back TV isn't functioning properly and so HOW am I going to finish the sequel to "Independence Day" which I really wasn't enjoying at all. I search for, locate, and press the Call button. I watch the girl sitting next to me take a nap by resting her head on her dinner tray. I am told by the flight attendant responding to my distress call that I may take one of the vacant seats in the back of the plane so that I may discover if Will Smith really isn't going to be in the movie after all.
I change seats.
I eat four Twizzlers.
I finish the movie and watch consider ordering from the touch screen menu a platter of cheese cubes and jelly packets for $49.99. I decide instead on watching "Father of the Bride." Which is good every single time.
I land in Salt Lake City. I disembark. I notice outside the window beautiful and scenic snowy mountains. I don't care because I didn't order the cheese cubes and jelly and am hungry and cranky as a result. I follow signs to my next assigned terminal. I sit in this terminal for 3 hours because it's snowing in Sun Valley and we have to wait and see if we are going to fly straight there or fly somewhere entirely different and take a bus for hours and hours. I buy Hannah a Christmas present. I stare at a wall full of books for a long time trying to decide if any of them tickle my fancy to the point I should purchase one. I settle on a book about the making of "The Princess Bride."
Finally, we board a wee, thin and spiny aircraft with no TVs to be found and fly for an hour. The pilot comes over the speaker and whispers very softly - it is never made clear why he whispers - that we might land in Sun Valley and we also might not. We will have to wait and see if the plane in line to land before us makes it successfully. I try to take a nap, but cannot, as now I can see out of the window. Idaho from here looks like a sandbox someone has been doodling in with a silver Sharpie.
We drive around on top of Idaho for half an hour and then, with no word at all from our pilot, descend into the Hailey airport, which could easily be mistaken for a gas station.
I am fetched by our stage manager and driven to my house. It's awesome. It's old and has high high wallpaper embossed with golden lions and flowers on the ceiling. Beautiful stained glass lamps. Sitting rooms, parlors, closets full of toilet paper and quilts, more televisions than make sense, and a snowy front yard boasting a tiny green apple tree blossoming by the sidewalk. It's the birthplace of a poet. Ezra Pound. Books of his work as well as many other novels fill dozens of shelves throughout this place.
I grin until my cheeks hurt - I had forgotten exactly how happy this place makes me - and hustle my buns to the grocery store before I'm due at play practice. In unloading my multiple boxes of cereal, I meet my housemate. Who is lovely. If my friends Sam, Colin, and JS got stirred together, that would be him. We intend to go sit in a hot spring he's read about in one of the pile of brochures in our kitchen.
Rehearsal occurs. I'm late to the proceedings so get three dance numbers tonight. Such good choreography. By brain turns into boiled guinea pig liver at 9:30; it's been many hours since I awoke. Tomorrow we have a Thanksgiving feast. We probably will not infuse our turkey with tequila- as I was advised to do by a young woman in line with me at the grocery store.
I think a turkey would be a fascinating pet.
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