We ain't in Kansas, Toto... but you'd think we were with all the crazy weather around here!!
As mentioned in a previous post, they test the tornado sirens every Wednesday at noon. (Which leaves me to wonder... what happens if there is ever an actual tornado at noon on a Wednesday?)
On several occasions now, we've heard those sirens going off at night as we hunker down in whatever building we happen to be in while storms rage outside.
And on at least one occasion, I've wanted to run out there and yell,
"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!"
If nothing else, because it's just so perfectly and beautifully dramatic!!
I've decided that I don't mind the weather in Little Rock. I was warned that Mother Nature is bipolar here; and that it can be 90 degrees and sunny one day, frigid and raining the next. That was no lie.
We've had no less than three 'hallway parties' as the residents take refuge during tornado warnings - and have also held an entire audience hostage through a 45-minute intermission. (They've been our best audience to date, in my opinion.) Last night, as I watched three tornado trackers whip through Arkansas, I opted to make crepes. I mean, who ever heard of a cast dying in a tornado while eating crepes? Even if we did perish... I figured the media would have a great story!
I've also decided that the weather suits my fickle nature and makes every day an adventure. Seeing the real-life, close-up damage it can cause still makes me nervous, but I do not miss the hot, stagnant, stifling air of my own hometown when compared to the tranquil breezes of a warm day in Little Rock.
It also reaffirms my belief that I need to relocate somewhere closer to water. I'm a desert rat and don't do well in the snow for long periods of time, but there are plenty of tropical climes that are still accessible. I find myself counting the days 'til the kids are done with High School... ready to set down new roots and travel back to the old ones in between whatever gigs I can land. It's scary... but again, every day is an adventure... and I'm pretty sure I thrive on that kind of existence.
Tomorrow, I will head over to the post office to pick up boxes to ship stuff back home.
I am going to miss this show and this cast, so I don't really want to think about leaving yet... but the reality is that I will only be here for 13 more days... and it is going by very quickly now.
The theatre suffered some damage last night as a result of the storm. Three or four huge glass panels were vacuumed right into the street (blown OUT, not in) and I imagine there was probably water and debris damage, though hopefully only minor. The theatre is being renovated in a couple of months... but it appears that Mama Nature wanted to start early.
And on that note, I need to get my laundry done and prep for tonight's show... in the meantime, I leave you with this poor quality video as a peek into what we do when we're not performing. (We hang in Lillian's room and watch the storms.)
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Adventures In Little Rock: Vol. 4
Today is a day of double shows and I should be warming up so I have some semblance of a voice for the matinee, but I overslept and feel bad for neglecting my blog so much on this trip.
I have been writing, but most of it has been for what will eventually be an actual, real-life, honest-to-goodness novel... someday. I'm just waiting for the Blue Fairy to appear and tell me 'what' it's supposed to be and how to get it there. But she's an elusive creature and has yet to tap me on the head with her magic wand. So for now... I just write... and rewrite... and edit... and write some more.
Today, one of my best gal pals from Jr. High and High School (Ann) and her husband are driving down to Little Rock to see the show. I haven't seen 'AnnieM' (as I used to call her in my best Judy Garland) since our chance meeting at a gas station one week after we graduated High School. So it has been... oh... 17 years. Holy crap!!
Ann and I bonded in Jr. High when we both found ourselves at the mercy of the same nasty, ugly, red-headed bully. We had known each other from sharing a few classes, but nothing bonds two people like a common enemy. Besides which, Ann was a quiet, unassuming, gentle spirit who wouldn't hurt a fly... so the fact that this girl wanted to 'beat us up' was less threatening and more comical at that point. (But still traumatic to 13 and 14 year olds.)
We both loved 'written word' artistry and the performing arts. She and I would skip and dance down the halls of school singing,
"Three little maids from school are we,
Pert as a school-girl well can be,
Filled to the brim with girlish glee,
Three little maids from school!"
as we discussed the kinds of boys we'd like to marry someday and what kind of houses our husbands would build us. (Yes, I think I actually believed for a time that I'd end up with the kind of husband who would build me a pretty little ranch house somewhere green and woodsy... no picket fence... just acreage.)
Her parents took us on a road trip the summer before our Sophomore year to visit Ann's grandma. We visited the 'Natural Bridge' for some hiking and natural sight-seeing where the cool, clear waters of the creek called to us. We opted to ignore all of the signs posted by the park service and skinny dip anyway. Luckily, we only got into minimal trouble for that one.
Throughout our High School years, we took on different interests. I didn't want to just sing the Mikado, I wanted to be IN it. So, while choir and drama and dance took over my life, Ann delved into tennis and student government. Our paths continued to cross in our mutual Honors classes, and our civilized upbringing and our derelict senses of humor continued to keep our friendship intact.
And so it is... 17 years later... that I ended up in her current state of residence doing a raucous musical.
She and her husband are driving down to Little Rock to see tonight's show after which we will try to catch up on the past (almost) two decades over cocktails or brunch before they drive back home tomorrow.
There's something comforting about knowing that even though I'm far from home... there are elements of home (and my ever distant youth) that are still accessible.
It's also a blessing to know that good friends are always good friends... no matter the time or distance between us.
Today's show will be dedicated to Jr. High bullies and the hopes that they are happier now than they were then.
Tonight's show will be dedicated to the friendships that stand the test of time.
And on that note, I must end this entry to apply some garish blue eyeshadow. :)
Merde!
I have been writing, but most of it has been for what will eventually be an actual, real-life, honest-to-goodness novel... someday. I'm just waiting for the Blue Fairy to appear and tell me 'what' it's supposed to be and how to get it there. But she's an elusive creature and has yet to tap me on the head with her magic wand. So for now... I just write... and rewrite... and edit... and write some more.
Today, one of my best gal pals from Jr. High and High School (Ann) and her husband are driving down to Little Rock to see the show. I haven't seen 'AnnieM' (as I used to call her in my best Judy Garland) since our chance meeting at a gas station one week after we graduated High School. So it has been... oh... 17 years. Holy crap!!
Ann and I bonded in Jr. High when we both found ourselves at the mercy of the same nasty, ugly, red-headed bully. We had known each other from sharing a few classes, but nothing bonds two people like a common enemy. Besides which, Ann was a quiet, unassuming, gentle spirit who wouldn't hurt a fly... so the fact that this girl wanted to 'beat us up' was less threatening and more comical at that point. (But still traumatic to 13 and 14 year olds.)
We both loved 'written word' artistry and the performing arts. She and I would skip and dance down the halls of school singing,
"Three little maids from school are we,
Pert as a school-girl well can be,
Filled to the brim with girlish glee,
Three little maids from school!"
as we discussed the kinds of boys we'd like to marry someday and what kind of houses our husbands would build us. (Yes, I think I actually believed for a time that I'd end up with the kind of husband who would build me a pretty little ranch house somewhere green and woodsy... no picket fence... just acreage.)
Her parents took us on a road trip the summer before our Sophomore year to visit Ann's grandma. We visited the 'Natural Bridge' for some hiking and natural sight-seeing where the cool, clear waters of the creek called to us. We opted to ignore all of the signs posted by the park service and skinny dip anyway. Luckily, we only got into minimal trouble for that one.
Throughout our High School years, we took on different interests. I didn't want to just sing the Mikado, I wanted to be IN it. So, while choir and drama and dance took over my life, Ann delved into tennis and student government. Our paths continued to cross in our mutual Honors classes, and our civilized upbringing and our derelict senses of humor continued to keep our friendship intact.
And so it is... 17 years later... that I ended up in her current state of residence doing a raucous musical.
She and her husband are driving down to Little Rock to see tonight's show after which we will try to catch up on the past (almost) two decades over cocktails or brunch before they drive back home tomorrow.
There's something comforting about knowing that even though I'm far from home... there are elements of home (and my ever distant youth) that are still accessible.
It's also a blessing to know that good friends are always good friends... no matter the time or distance between us.
Today's show will be dedicated to Jr. High bullies and the hopes that they are happier now than they were then.
Tonight's show will be dedicated to the friendships that stand the test of time.
And on that note, I must end this entry to apply some garish blue eyeshadow. :)
Merde!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Adventures In Little Rock: Vol. 3
Okay, so it has been a while since I posted... and I don't have much time, so this will be more of a Reader's Digest Condensed Version. (For those who even know what Reader's Digest is anymore...)
First of all, for those who are curious about my ghost (Steve), he seems to be doing well and sends his good wishes to everyone reading.
Lillian (our Tracy Turnblad) was housed in my apartment while she was here doing Glorious, so she gave me some pointers. Apparently, she set some 'ground rules' that were to be strictly followed (such as the bedroom being her private, sacred space in which he is unwelcome.)
I had a 'conversation' with him that consisted of, "Hey... um... Lils told me all about you, Steve. Um... she also told me that you know the rules, so the same rules apply, and um... I will have no more tomfoolery, OKAY?" (*silence*)
Yes, I felt silly, but it worked. And as long as my bedroom door is shut at night, I'm oblivious to his shenanigans. He does, however, still turn off the light on my ceiling fan and changes my channels when he doesn't approve of my viewing choices. So far I have determined that he prefers the History Channel to RuPaul's Drag Race and if I dare watch any Desperate Housewives (of ANY city), he will find whatever war movie is randomly playing and switch to that. On one occasion, there were obviously no war movies showing and so he chose BBC coverage of the war in Afghanistan instead. Gee, thanks.
My second week here, I got really sick. What I thought were horrible allergies (because I've never really suffered from them and didn't know any better) was actually a sinus and ear infection. I got a steroid shot and some antibiotics and am now feeling 110% better! Except I now actually know what allergies feel like... and they suck. Claritin has been my friend and enabled me to keep some semblance of a voice amidst all the pollen around here.
Arkansas is gorgeous. The weather fluctuates daily and it has been warm and breezy or frigid and pouring every other day, which suits my fickle mood and allows me to dress in layers. I love it!!
Tonight is Opening Night and the show has grown by leaps and bounds throughout tech. The costume crew has worked above and beyond overtime to replace trim, tailor suits, and place insoles in the shoes of all the divas... The entire production crew and staff at The Rep are awesome and truly proud of the product they offer and the artistry inside its walls, which I respect immensely.
I'm proud to be here, proud to be part of an amazing show and have had an uproariously fun journey with all of these beautiful people. And really thrilled to be playing such a fun role!!
I tried to nap in the hopes that I could keep up with the kids at the after-party, but I no sooner laid down than someone upstairs started choreographing 42nd street and rearranging all the heavy furniture while simultaneously my son started texting pics of his wood shop project and the landscapers set up shop outside my open window. Apparently there is MUCH debris to be blown away on my side of the building as they've been by four times now. (And I assure you, I'm fully dressed.) However, it was a bit of a shock to see an all-white landscaping crew with nary a Mexican among them. I caught myself staring. I know, I know, my hometown is showing. :)
And on that note, Happy Opening to the cast and crew. This one is much deserved. Now I'm off to spread my crabs to all the willing participants...
Merde!!
First of all, for those who are curious about my ghost (Steve), he seems to be doing well and sends his good wishes to everyone reading.
Lillian (our Tracy Turnblad) was housed in my apartment while she was here doing Glorious, so she gave me some pointers. Apparently, she set some 'ground rules' that were to be strictly followed (such as the bedroom being her private, sacred space in which he is unwelcome.)
I had a 'conversation' with him that consisted of, "Hey... um... Lils told me all about you, Steve. Um... she also told me that you know the rules, so the same rules apply, and um... I will have no more tomfoolery, OKAY?" (*silence*)
Yes, I felt silly, but it worked. And as long as my bedroom door is shut at night, I'm oblivious to his shenanigans. He does, however, still turn off the light on my ceiling fan and changes my channels when he doesn't approve of my viewing choices. So far I have determined that he prefers the History Channel to RuPaul's Drag Race and if I dare watch any Desperate Housewives (of ANY city), he will find whatever war movie is randomly playing and switch to that. On one occasion, there were obviously no war movies showing and so he chose BBC coverage of the war in Afghanistan instead. Gee, thanks.
My second week here, I got really sick. What I thought were horrible allergies (because I've never really suffered from them and didn't know any better) was actually a sinus and ear infection. I got a steroid shot and some antibiotics and am now feeling 110% better! Except I now actually know what allergies feel like... and they suck. Claritin has been my friend and enabled me to keep some semblance of a voice amidst all the pollen around here.
Arkansas is gorgeous. The weather fluctuates daily and it has been warm and breezy or frigid and pouring every other day, which suits my fickle mood and allows me to dress in layers. I love it!!
Tonight is Opening Night and the show has grown by leaps and bounds throughout tech. The costume crew has worked above and beyond overtime to replace trim, tailor suits, and place insoles in the shoes of all the divas... The entire production crew and staff at The Rep are awesome and truly proud of the product they offer and the artistry inside its walls, which I respect immensely.
I'm proud to be here, proud to be part of an amazing show and have had an uproariously fun journey with all of these beautiful people. And really thrilled to be playing such a fun role!!
I tried to nap in the hopes that I could keep up with the kids at the after-party, but I no sooner laid down than someone upstairs started choreographing 42nd street and rearranging all the heavy furniture while simultaneously my son started texting pics of his wood shop project and the landscapers set up shop outside my open window. Apparently there is MUCH debris to be blown away on my side of the building as they've been by four times now. (And I assure you, I'm fully dressed.) However, it was a bit of a shock to see an all-white landscaping crew with nary a Mexican among them. I caught myself staring. I know, I know, my hometown is showing. :)
And on that note, Happy Opening to the cast and crew. This one is much deserved. Now I'm off to spread my crabs to all the willing participants...
Merde!!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Little Rock Nine
I was going to blog more about my experiences with Hairspray rehearsals and the ghost in my apartment (Steve) but I'm still reeling over my visit to Central High School and opted to blog it out now in the hopes that I can sleep.
A good chunk of our cast had the opportunity to tour Central High School, famous for the 1957 segregation controversy and Alma Mater of 'The Little Rock Nine'. The impact of being there in person is something I will never forget.
Before the days of cell phones and Youtube, this school in Little Rock, Arkansas reached global attention as a hot-spot for hostile race relations and political maneuvering at the expense of its children.
In 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court had deemed segregated schools unconstitutional (Brown v. Board of Education: Topeka, Kansas) and plans began for the desegregation of previously 'white only' schools in the south.
Nine black students were registered to begin the school year at Central High in 1957. They were Earnest Green, Elizabeth Eckford, Jefferson Thomas, Terrence Roberts, Carlotta Walls LaNier, Minnijean Brown, Gloria Ray Karlmark, Thelma Mothershed, and Melba Patillo Beals.
The Governer at the time, Orval Faubus, deployed the Arkansas National Guard to support the segregationists in blocking the black students from entering the school. His rebellion of the new Federal law prompted Eisenhower to order the 101st Airborne Division of the US Army to escort the children to campus; and he federalized the Arkansas National Guard to take it out of the hands of Faubus (aka Douchey McAssHat).
The angry mob of white students, parents, citizens and curious onlookers is memorialized in photos and videos that are now famous in their depiction of 'white vs. black' at a time when segregation was commonplace.
It blows my mind.
The concept of prejudice and exclusion based on race is one that is absolutely foreign to me. I learned about slavery and segregation in school; but even at that time, it seemed as archaic as learning about ancient Greece.
Today, it struck me how RECENT this all was in our history. Merely 50 years ago in our history, we were still treating African Americans as sub-human; associating them as low-income, low-intelligence, undesirables. It makes my heart weep.
I've been hearing (and seeing) a ton about 'bullying' as it is a hot topic in American schools right now. Parents are raising their voices about the ill treatment of their children in places where we give up our rights and responsibilities to school administrators and district title-holders.
It occurred to me today that these nine students could shed a lot of light and wisdom about the lasting scars, having endured the most outrageous and blatant bullying I've ever heard of. And not just at the hands of their peers, but at the hands of parents, teachers, lawmakers... the very individuals that should have had no higher priority but to serve and protect the members of their community. And for God's sake... these were CHILDREN.
I have always maintained that intolerance and prejudice is predominantly learned. I do believe that in the case of the "Little Rock Nine", most of the white students that mistreated their black peers did so because they were taught by their parents and their parents' parents to think or believe certain (incorrect) truths about race and/or social classes.
"Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do."
We also had the amazing opportunity to meet Minnijean Brown (as well as her daughter) and listen to her speak. Her grace and poise was captivating and her words struck my heart.
Indeed, I felt guilty for being white, and throughout the afternoon I kept thinking, "Man, if I went to this school in 1957, it would be a TOTALLY different story!"
But would it?
Minnijean made the statement that the demographic breakdown went something like this, "There were about 100 truly mean and horrible students, about 20 nice ones, and a thousand silent witnesses."
It made me stop and think about any time I witnessed injustice or unfair treatment and said nothing. Any time I saw another human being in pain and just walked by...
I doubted I had ever been truly horrible to anyone besides my brothers... but I had to admit that there have been instances (more than one) in which I'm guilty of having been a silent witness.
It also brought to light how much weight... how much responsibility... how much shame... were put on these kids. Children who were doing nothing more than exercising their right to learn. To LEARN. And what were we teaching them?
I guiltily thought of every time I've ever joked disparagingly about another race in the presence of my kids. I justified it with the fact that I disparage my own race as much (if not more) than any other; and that because my kids are multi-racial themselves, the inclusion of all races, religions, sexual orientations, etc. have been equally accepted in our household as human beings worthy of love, acceptance, respect and tolerance. But even then, I had to check myself. Is there anything I do or say to indicate that anyone shouldn't be treated equally? Good God, I hope not!
I have to admit that I was raised by parents who never inferred or intimated that any race or skin color was better than another. As a kid, I remember wishing that God would make me black so I could sing and dance better, but that was based on my own observations at the time. I also have to admit that I know not every set of parents feels the same way as mine, nor did they raise their children in the same vein of love and fellowship.
It breaks my heart to hear the stories of abuse - both physical and verbal - that these kids endured on a daily basis. And they didn't have one bully or two like most of us did growing up. They had scores of bullies. Some of them the very adults that they were told they must respect and obey.
It is sobering and humbling to know and understand these events as they unfolded. And as I hear about 'culture clashes' and vitriol being spewed at collective groups because they are gay or Muslim or whatever... it is reminiscent of these mistakes of our forefathers.
The past echoes in my head as I wonder if we will ever learn, or if we will continuously repeat the mistakes of the preceding generations with a tendency towards fear and exclusion in an attempt to make our own selves feel special or closer to enlightenment.
My only hope is that I can do my part to correct these mistakes by raising my children to know (not just believe, but KNOW) that the world can only be a wonderful place if you continuously look to the beauty and wonder that it contains. And that includes love and respect for every person, place, animal, vegetable and mineral. There are shitty people within any group or subculture, sure. But no one person represents a collective any more than a collective can adequately represent any one unique individual. Perhaps with another generation or two, we can effectively dilute the hate, the fear and the confusion.
As I left Central High School, the only thought in my head was that the mob back in September of 1957 fancied themselves the majority 'in the right' over these poor, ignorant nine students.... but were instead an example of a truly ignorant majority.
Wake up, nation. It was not that long ago. I wonder how much progress we've actually made since then.
And on that note, I'll leave you with this poem, recommended by Minnijean Brown and penned by Cyrus Cassells for Elizabeth Eckford:
Soul Make a Path Through Shouting
Thick at the schoolgate are the ones
Rage has twisted
Into minotaurs, harpies
Relentlessly swift;
So you must walk past the pincers,
The swaying horns,
Sister, sister,
Straight through the gusts
Of fear and fury,
Straight through:
Where are you going?
I'm just going to school.
Here we go to meet
The hydra-headed day,
Here we go to meet
The maelstrom-
Can my voice be an angel-on-the-spot,
An amen corner?
Can my voice take you there,
Gallant girl with a notebook,
Up, up from the shadows of gallows trees
To the other shore:
A globe bathed in light,
A chalkboard blooming with equations-
I have never seen the likes of you,
Pioneer in dark glasses:
You won't show the mob your eyes,
But I know your gaze,
Steady-on-the-North-Star, burning-
With their jerry-rigged faith,
Their spear on the American flag,
How could they dare to believe
You're someone sacred?:
Nigger, burr-headed girl,
Where are you going?
I'm just going to school.
A good chunk of our cast had the opportunity to tour Central High School, famous for the 1957 segregation controversy and Alma Mater of 'The Little Rock Nine'. The impact of being there in person is something I will never forget.
Before the days of cell phones and Youtube, this school in Little Rock, Arkansas reached global attention as a hot-spot for hostile race relations and political maneuvering at the expense of its children.
In 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court had deemed segregated schools unconstitutional (Brown v. Board of Education: Topeka, Kansas) and plans began for the desegregation of previously 'white only' schools in the south.
Nine black students were registered to begin the school year at Central High in 1957. They were Earnest Green, Elizabeth Eckford, Jefferson Thomas, Terrence Roberts, Carlotta Walls LaNier, Minnijean Brown, Gloria Ray Karlmark, Thelma Mothershed, and Melba Patillo Beals.
The Governer at the time, Orval Faubus, deployed the Arkansas National Guard to support the segregationists in blocking the black students from entering the school. His rebellion of the new Federal law prompted Eisenhower to order the 101st Airborne Division of the US Army to escort the children to campus; and he federalized the Arkansas National Guard to take it out of the hands of Faubus (aka Douchey McAssHat).
The angry mob of white students, parents, citizens and curious onlookers is memorialized in photos and videos that are now famous in their depiction of 'white vs. black' at a time when segregation was commonplace.
It blows my mind.
The concept of prejudice and exclusion based on race is one that is absolutely foreign to me. I learned about slavery and segregation in school; but even at that time, it seemed as archaic as learning about ancient Greece.
Today, it struck me how RECENT this all was in our history. Merely 50 years ago in our history, we were still treating African Americans as sub-human; associating them as low-income, low-intelligence, undesirables. It makes my heart weep.
I've been hearing (and seeing) a ton about 'bullying' as it is a hot topic in American schools right now. Parents are raising their voices about the ill treatment of their children in places where we give up our rights and responsibilities to school administrators and district title-holders.
It occurred to me today that these nine students could shed a lot of light and wisdom about the lasting scars, having endured the most outrageous and blatant bullying I've ever heard of. And not just at the hands of their peers, but at the hands of parents, teachers, lawmakers... the very individuals that should have had no higher priority but to serve and protect the members of their community. And for God's sake... these were CHILDREN.
I have always maintained that intolerance and prejudice is predominantly learned. I do believe that in the case of the "Little Rock Nine", most of the white students that mistreated their black peers did so because they were taught by their parents and their parents' parents to think or believe certain (incorrect) truths about race and/or social classes.
"Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do."
We also had the amazing opportunity to meet Minnijean Brown (as well as her daughter) and listen to her speak. Her grace and poise was captivating and her words struck my heart.
Indeed, I felt guilty for being white, and throughout the afternoon I kept thinking, "Man, if I went to this school in 1957, it would be a TOTALLY different story!"
But would it?
Minnijean made the statement that the demographic breakdown went something like this, "There were about 100 truly mean and horrible students, about 20 nice ones, and a thousand silent witnesses."
It made me stop and think about any time I witnessed injustice or unfair treatment and said nothing. Any time I saw another human being in pain and just walked by...
I doubted I had ever been truly horrible to anyone besides my brothers... but I had to admit that there have been instances (more than one) in which I'm guilty of having been a silent witness.
It also brought to light how much weight... how much responsibility... how much shame... were put on these kids. Children who were doing nothing more than exercising their right to learn. To LEARN. And what were we teaching them?
I guiltily thought of every time I've ever joked disparagingly about another race in the presence of my kids. I justified it with the fact that I disparage my own race as much (if not more) than any other; and that because my kids are multi-racial themselves, the inclusion of all races, religions, sexual orientations, etc. have been equally accepted in our household as human beings worthy of love, acceptance, respect and tolerance. But even then, I had to check myself. Is there anything I do or say to indicate that anyone shouldn't be treated equally? Good God, I hope not!
I have to admit that I was raised by parents who never inferred or intimated that any race or skin color was better than another. As a kid, I remember wishing that God would make me black so I could sing and dance better, but that was based on my own observations at the time. I also have to admit that I know not every set of parents feels the same way as mine, nor did they raise their children in the same vein of love and fellowship.
It breaks my heart to hear the stories of abuse - both physical and verbal - that these kids endured on a daily basis. And they didn't have one bully or two like most of us did growing up. They had scores of bullies. Some of them the very adults that they were told they must respect and obey.
It is sobering and humbling to know and understand these events as they unfolded. And as I hear about 'culture clashes' and vitriol being spewed at collective groups because they are gay or Muslim or whatever... it is reminiscent of these mistakes of our forefathers.
The past echoes in my head as I wonder if we will ever learn, or if we will continuously repeat the mistakes of the preceding generations with a tendency towards fear and exclusion in an attempt to make our own selves feel special or closer to enlightenment.
My only hope is that I can do my part to correct these mistakes by raising my children to know (not just believe, but KNOW) that the world can only be a wonderful place if you continuously look to the beauty and wonder that it contains. And that includes love and respect for every person, place, animal, vegetable and mineral. There are shitty people within any group or subculture, sure. But no one person represents a collective any more than a collective can adequately represent any one unique individual. Perhaps with another generation or two, we can effectively dilute the hate, the fear and the confusion.
As I left Central High School, the only thought in my head was that the mob back in September of 1957 fancied themselves the majority 'in the right' over these poor, ignorant nine students.... but were instead an example of a truly ignorant majority.
Wake up, nation. It was not that long ago. I wonder how much progress we've actually made since then.
And on that note, I'll leave you with this poem, recommended by Minnijean Brown and penned by Cyrus Cassells for Elizabeth Eckford:
Soul Make a Path Through Shouting
Thick at the schoolgate are the ones
Rage has twisted
Into minotaurs, harpies
Relentlessly swift;
So you must walk past the pincers,
The swaying horns,
Sister, sister,
Straight through the gusts
Of fear and fury,
Straight through:
Where are you going?
I'm just going to school.
Here we go to meet
The hydra-headed day,
Here we go to meet
The maelstrom-
Can my voice be an angel-on-the-spot,
An amen corner?
Can my voice take you there,
Gallant girl with a notebook,
Up, up from the shadows of gallows trees
To the other shore:
A globe bathed in light,
A chalkboard blooming with equations-
I have never seen the likes of you,
Pioneer in dark glasses:
You won't show the mob your eyes,
But I know your gaze,
Steady-on-the-North-Star, burning-
With their jerry-rigged faith,
Their spear on the American flag,
How could they dare to believe
You're someone sacred?:
Nigger, burr-headed girl,
Where are you going?
I'm just going to school.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Adventures in Little Rock - Vol. 2
My apartment is haunted.
I know what you're thinking. "Oh Andi, you're so overdramatic."
So I will explain the events as they unfolded....
I arrived on Monday and dropped my luggage off in my room (#7) and left immediately for a trip to the grocery store to stock my kitchen.
I returned to unload groceries and the apartment was frigid. Not just chilly... COLD. So, I went to turn on the heater.... and my A/C unit was dead.
No worries. I put in a call to the head honcho in charge of that stuff and he said he'd have a repairman out to take a look at it the next day. When I returned from rehearsal, there were four space heaters in my apartment to get me through the night.
Fast forward to Friday.
I got a call that the repairman had to go on the roof to inspect the unit and found that mine (and only mine) had been hit by lightning.
Wow. Crazy. But not too creepy... yet.
It'll be a while before I have actual heat, so the space heaters are destined to be my friends for the next few chilly nights.
I returned to my apartment after rehearsal on Friday and promptly made myself a BLT (without the T - 'cuz I hate raw tomatoes) and sat down to watch 'my channel' - Investigation Discovery.
I was just getting to the details of an 'unexplained disappearance' on the show when I heard a 'pop' and the TV went out. Along with my ceiling fan. No big deal. Prolly just flipped a breaker or something, right? Nope... it was just the fan and the outlet that my TV was plugged into. Everything else on that breaker was working fine. I switched the power cord to another outlet and the TV popped right back on to the same channel I had been watching.
And that's when the weirdness started.
The TV flipped out and started changing channels on it's own - landing on some random channel with a movie I recognized - The Crucible. It tuned in just in time to see John Proctor's hanging.
Okay, a little heebie-jeebie-ish, admittedly. But at least the programming had spared me from the performance of Winona Ryder in that piece of schlock.
I scanned the room for the remote control and the instant my eyes found it, the TV popped off again.
I called Lillian, who drowsily answers the phone, and tell her that I think my apartment is haunted. She immediately responds with, "Don't say that! #7 was MY apartment last time I was here and I thought the same thing!!" We giggle a bit and I let her go, since she has to get up early... and return to the task of entertaining myself without my beloved television.
The power cord for the TV wouldn't reach any of the other outlets in the living room, so I opened my laptop and decided to check email and chat with my girl on Facebook instead. It was getting close to bedtime anyhow.
I started chatting with a full battery on my laptop (good for a few hours of basic browsing) and about ten minutes later, I got a low battery warning. Only 9% left. Odd.
I plugged it in so it could run on outlet power instead. About five minutes later, I got a warning that the battery was no longer charging. The outlet had gone dead.
(Insert theme from Twilight Zone.)
I plugged it into another outlet. About five minutes later, that one went dead... along with the remaining light in my living room.
The same scenario repeated as I chased the outlets through the hallway and into the bedroom... only to have them fail after five to ten minutes.
I finally settled on my bed, using the outlet in my bathroom to plug in the laptop. The ONLY outlet in the entire apartment that works... and it is now 2am local time. I have power in my bathroom... and power to my fridge and the light above the stove. That's it. Everything else in the apartment had gone dead. (Goodbye to my space heaters as well.)
After chatting well into the morning, I decided it was time to get some sleep. Since my clock wasn't working, I set the alarm on my phone to go off at 10am. It is now decidedly chilly in the apartment, so I bundle up with the heavy comforter and drift off to sleep.
At 8am, I was startled awake by a loud bang in my living room. I got up to inspect... only to find that my TV was on. (Incidentally tuned back to the ID network that I'd been watching before all the craziness started.) I turned off the TV and padded back to the bedroom, figuring that my power was back. I went to plug in my phone so it could charge a bit... only to discover the outlets still weren't working in my bedroom. So, I walk on back to the living room to plug it in to the TV outlet - 'cuz obviously that's working.
Only it's not.
WTF?
I also realized at that moment that I was sweaty... and it dawned on me that the apartment was no longer chilly. It was hot. Like a summer in Arizona hot. Stagnant, oppressive hot.
I go to open the windows in the living room that I've opened and closed half a dozen times already... and they're stuck. Both of 'em. I can't open the windows!!
I finally get my bathroom window open and lay back down for another hour (because I'm tired and haven't slept very long or very well at this point). Before I crash, I call Peter (the head honcho who has been orchestrating the repairs and maintenance of our living quarters) and leave a message letting him know the power in my apartment has gone wonky. I curl up on my bed (no covers, 'cuz it's still really warm) and doze when my phone rings about half an hour later.
It's Peter and he instructs me to go through the motions of flipping the breakers back and forth. Nothing happens on the first or second tries. The third one works and the apartment comes to life with a click and a hum...
Now here's the thing... I only flipped the living room breaker. But ALL of the power came back on. The living room, bedroom, and kitchen... even though they're all on separate switches.
It's after 10am and sunlight is flooding the apartment, so it's too bright to get the true creepy creepers, but my hair was standing up on end all the same. My mind kept flashing to Cusak in the movie 1408, which only succeeded in creeping me out more.
It can all be explained away, of course. It's an older building. The wiring could be faulty, etc, etc...
In the meantime, I'm making sure that I charge the battery for the video camera in case there are any more strange occurrences.
If I disappear into the vortex that is apartment #7, I will at least have left an account of the goings-on... and Lillian will totally back me up.
She named the ghost Steve.
On nights like last night, though... I really wish I had my dog. Or some holy water. Just for peace of mind.
Oh, Little Rock... you quirky, creepy little town. I like you. :)
Stay tuned for the next adventures...
I know what you're thinking. "Oh Andi, you're so overdramatic."
So I will explain the events as they unfolded....
I arrived on Monday and dropped my luggage off in my room (#7) and left immediately for a trip to the grocery store to stock my kitchen.
I returned to unload groceries and the apartment was frigid. Not just chilly... COLD. So, I went to turn on the heater.... and my A/C unit was dead.
No worries. I put in a call to the head honcho in charge of that stuff and he said he'd have a repairman out to take a look at it the next day. When I returned from rehearsal, there were four space heaters in my apartment to get me through the night.
Fast forward to Friday.
I got a call that the repairman had to go on the roof to inspect the unit and found that mine (and only mine) had been hit by lightning.
Wow. Crazy. But not too creepy... yet.
It'll be a while before I have actual heat, so the space heaters are destined to be my friends for the next few chilly nights.
I returned to my apartment after rehearsal on Friday and promptly made myself a BLT (without the T - 'cuz I hate raw tomatoes) and sat down to watch 'my channel' - Investigation Discovery.
I was just getting to the details of an 'unexplained disappearance' on the show when I heard a 'pop' and the TV went out. Along with my ceiling fan. No big deal. Prolly just flipped a breaker or something, right? Nope... it was just the fan and the outlet that my TV was plugged into. Everything else on that breaker was working fine. I switched the power cord to another outlet and the TV popped right back on to the same channel I had been watching.
And that's when the weirdness started.
The TV flipped out and started changing channels on it's own - landing on some random channel with a movie I recognized - The Crucible. It tuned in just in time to see John Proctor's hanging.
Okay, a little heebie-jeebie-ish, admittedly. But at least the programming had spared me from the performance of Winona Ryder in that piece of schlock.
I scanned the room for the remote control and the instant my eyes found it, the TV popped off again.
I called Lillian, who drowsily answers the phone, and tell her that I think my apartment is haunted. She immediately responds with, "Don't say that! #7 was MY apartment last time I was here and I thought the same thing!!" We giggle a bit and I let her go, since she has to get up early... and return to the task of entertaining myself without my beloved television.
The power cord for the TV wouldn't reach any of the other outlets in the living room, so I opened my laptop and decided to check email and chat with my girl on Facebook instead. It was getting close to bedtime anyhow.
I started chatting with a full battery on my laptop (good for a few hours of basic browsing) and about ten minutes later, I got a low battery warning. Only 9% left. Odd.
I plugged it in so it could run on outlet power instead. About five minutes later, I got a warning that the battery was no longer charging. The outlet had gone dead.
(Insert theme from Twilight Zone.)
I plugged it into another outlet. About five minutes later, that one went dead... along with the remaining light in my living room.
The same scenario repeated as I chased the outlets through the hallway and into the bedroom... only to have them fail after five to ten minutes.
I finally settled on my bed, using the outlet in my bathroom to plug in the laptop. The ONLY outlet in the entire apartment that works... and it is now 2am local time. I have power in my bathroom... and power to my fridge and the light above the stove. That's it. Everything else in the apartment had gone dead. (Goodbye to my space heaters as well.)
After chatting well into the morning, I decided it was time to get some sleep. Since my clock wasn't working, I set the alarm on my phone to go off at 10am. It is now decidedly chilly in the apartment, so I bundle up with the heavy comforter and drift off to sleep.
At 8am, I was startled awake by a loud bang in my living room. I got up to inspect... only to find that my TV was on. (Incidentally tuned back to the ID network that I'd been watching before all the craziness started.) I turned off the TV and padded back to the bedroom, figuring that my power was back. I went to plug in my phone so it could charge a bit... only to discover the outlets still weren't working in my bedroom. So, I walk on back to the living room to plug it in to the TV outlet - 'cuz obviously that's working.
Only it's not.
WTF?
I also realized at that moment that I was sweaty... and it dawned on me that the apartment was no longer chilly. It was hot. Like a summer in Arizona hot. Stagnant, oppressive hot.
I go to open the windows in the living room that I've opened and closed half a dozen times already... and they're stuck. Both of 'em. I can't open the windows!!
I finally get my bathroom window open and lay back down for another hour (because I'm tired and haven't slept very long or very well at this point). Before I crash, I call Peter (the head honcho who has been orchestrating the repairs and maintenance of our living quarters) and leave a message letting him know the power in my apartment has gone wonky. I curl up on my bed (no covers, 'cuz it's still really warm) and doze when my phone rings about half an hour later.
It's Peter and he instructs me to go through the motions of flipping the breakers back and forth. Nothing happens on the first or second tries. The third one works and the apartment comes to life with a click and a hum...
Now here's the thing... I only flipped the living room breaker. But ALL of the power came back on. The living room, bedroom, and kitchen... even though they're all on separate switches.
It's after 10am and sunlight is flooding the apartment, so it's too bright to get the true creepy creepers, but my hair was standing up on end all the same. My mind kept flashing to Cusak in the movie 1408, which only succeeded in creeping me out more.
It can all be explained away, of course. It's an older building. The wiring could be faulty, etc, etc...
In the meantime, I'm making sure that I charge the battery for the video camera in case there are any more strange occurrences.
If I disappear into the vortex that is apartment #7, I will at least have left an account of the goings-on... and Lillian will totally back me up.
She named the ghost Steve.
On nights like last night, though... I really wish I had my dog. Or some holy water. Just for peace of mind.
Oh, Little Rock... you quirky, creepy little town. I like you. :)
Stay tuned for the next adventures...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Adventures in Little Rock - Vol. 1
It is a little-known fact that actors have to be able to travel - and travel well - on occasions.
We often book gigs out of town, which means that just like any businessman (or woman), we end up with our own processes of packing (often bringing just the barest essentials) and operating from a foreign location.
I was thinking about this as I packed my two suitcases to the absolute brim with enough clothes to make it through a couple of weeks as well as my "show gear" which includes my entire makeup case, rehearsal shoes, tights, 'show bras', script, music, etc. Now, while I've gone out of town to do shows before, I think this is actually the longest out-of-town run that I've done to date. I have been spoiled rotten.
True to form, I overpacked.
Not only do I actually have enough clothes (I packed a ton - including more panties than I even knew I owned) but I also packed my laptop, my video camera, my still camera, two research books for a project I'm writing, five fiction books, my knitting, scores of sheet music (to whittle down for season general auditions this year), six pairs of shoes, a blow-dryer, two curling irons and a flatiron.
BOTH of my suitcases required a good amount of pushing, pulling and sitting to get them comfortably closed and secured. In addition to that, it was clear that one of my bags was quite obviously over 50lbs. (The weight limit for United's luggage policy.) I packed and repacked to redistribute some of the weight, but it just wasn't working. I could tell that the larger suitcase was over 50lbs, but there was nothing I could do. I hoped beyond hope that I'd end up in a long line with impatient TSA agents who didn't want to weigh them, but figured I'd be paying through the nose once I got there.
It was 6:30am on Monday when Jay dropped me off at the airport. With my heavy bags and such, I figured it'd be easier to let the skycap at the curb hook me up, so as Jay and I said our goodbyes, I made eye contact with the tall, handsome fellah at the counter - indicating that I was gonna be moving his way next. He asked where I was headed and set about checking me in as he grabbed the larger of the two bags. I watched his face as he lifted it and our eyes met at that instant - there was no way to hide the fact that I knew the bag was heavy. I knew. He knew I knew. There was no way out.
And so he said, "You're aware of the fees for checking bags?"
And I said, "Yessir. If I could have fit it all into one bag, I would have."
And he said, "Well, this one feels like it might be a bit overweight."
And I said, "Sssshhhhhh! The bag will hear you!"
Then I continued, "You see, my luggage is simply experiencing the sympathetic symptoms of MY being overweight and 'between sizes' right now. Something I hope we'll both be able to remedy in the upcoming weeks. I certainly don't want my baggage being penalized because of my baggage."
(ending with a wink and a flash of the Watson smile - complete with dimples)
He charged me for my two bags. No overweight baggage fee.
God bless that beautiful black man and his sense of humor/pity on a poor actress.
And so I was on my way! I made it through security without TSA pawing through my backpack or feeling me up. Which is kind-of a disappointment. I got so used to having my carry-on handchecked at security that I started putting random items in my carry-on just for fun. Nothing contraband... just goofy or odd. Like a random pair of panties - which is actually practical in case you DO get separated from your luggage - or a single sock, a bizarre book, etc.
Since I printed my boarding passes online and flew through security without any trouble, I had about an hour and a half to kill before boarding. Enter my favorite airport game: People Watching!!!
Unfortunately, the pickings are pretty slim at 6:30 am. The usual business travelers - identified by their business suits and lack of luggage (save for the leather overnight bag or the custom case for their laptops), the occasional families or couples dotting the hectic-yet-barren landscape, and the random cute kid here and there.
I quickly grew bored and decided to pop open my book instead. Just as I was engrossed in the story before me, a woman stopped directly in front of me. I saw her boots first and looked up to see a slender woman in her 40's who looked like a cross between Joan Jett and Stevie Nicks. Skinny jeans tucked into knee-high caramel boots, layered tanks and a black leather jacket. Our eyes met and she gave a 'Hrmph', turned on her heel, and walked away briskly.
"Hrmph?" What did that mean?
She had a curious inflection, as if to say, "Well, isn't that strange/interesting/bizarre?"
I looked around, but no one else was close by.
I dismissed it as a case of "she-thought-I-was-someone-else" syndrome and let it go... but obviously I'm still puzzled by the random stranger 'Hrmph-ing' at me.
We boarded without incident (this was the first leg of my flight from Phx to Denver to Arkansas) and I ended up in an aisle seat.
To my left (across the aisle) was a mom with a 4-month-old baby. I groaned inwardly, and felt guilty for it when the baby turned out to be a champ of a li'l traveler. He fussed for all of 30 seconds before mom popped a bottle in his mouth and rocked him to sleep.
To my right was a (very) large woman who was occupying both of the seats next to me. Both the window and the middle seat were taken up by her right and left butt-cheeks, respectively. I gave a friendly 'Hello' as I sat down. She somehow said 'Hi' without moving her mouth and promptly gave me her back as she fiddled with the window shade.
About five minutes into our flight she opened her carry-on and started munching on the foulest smelling corn nuts EVER. I decided to try to nap and let my head loll attractively to my left side so as to avoid drooling over my seatmate should I fall asleep.
I began to doze, but woke to the announcement of beverage service just as the party gal to my right was opening a package of licorice.
Now, having been a hefty girl myself for a good period of time, I'm generally not concerned with the eating habits of others. At my top weight, I was 209lbs. I ate when I was anxious, stressed, lonely, bored or sad. I understand how easy it is to let bad habits spiral and how hard it is to face the disappointment or condemnation of loved ones and strangers alike. (I replaced comfort-eating with comfort-smoking, so it's not like the underlying issues magically disappeared in my life. I certainly ain't no poster child for healthy living.)
HOWEVER, I watched this lady eat cornnuts, Red Vines, Chips, cookies, and what looked like a Moon Pie (I love those!) within the first 15-20 minutes of our flight. I dozed off again and was again woken when the flight attendant reached past me to hand my traveling companion a Coke. She looked at it, frowned, and handed it back to the gal with, "No, a DIET Coke, please."
I didn't mean to, but my mouth gaped open before I was conscious that I was now staring at her. I'm sure my face had the expression of, "Really?" I almost laughed out loud in spite of myself.
I'm a judgmental asshole, I know.
And while I'm on the subject... While waiting at the Denver airport to board the flight to Little Rock, my darling friend Lillian arrived and saved me from boredom with cheery chit-chat and catching up on the last few months since we've seen each other. We were deep into our gossip session when a woman in her late 40's to early 50's skipped by - yes, skipped - wearing green running shorts (circa 1970) white tube socks with a green stripe at the top (also circa 1970) a white T-shirt and pigtails. Yes, pigtails... adorned with curly green and white ribbons. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and explained to Lillian that she must be a Girl Scout troupe leader. It is cookie season, after all. I don't know if she's eligible for 'fashion forgiveness', but I do have to applaud her for her ability to skip through an airport without a care in the world. Even if I raised an eyebrow at her choice of hairstyle, I had to smile at the real-life 'Baby Jane' phenom.
We arrived in Little Rock on-time and were greeted by some of the friendliest production staff ever - and some of the unfriendliest storm clouds. It was rainy and cold, but there was still a buzz of energy in the air as we met new friends, reunited with old ones and set off to embark on the adventure that is 'Hairspray' in Arkansas.
So far, the cast is incredibly gorgeous - and they sound as good as they look!! Everyone has been so friendly and open-armed that it feels like coming home, even though I'm in a foreign town. I miss the kids, I miss the cats, I miss the dog, I miss my bed... and I would miss Jason, except for the fact that I've found a suitable replacement here in the South...
Sweet tea.
Glorious, delicious, refreshing, make-my-mouth-so-happy-I-want-to-bathe-in-it, nectar of the gods.
Sweet tea is my new BFF.
At least for the next nine weeks. :)
Stay tuned for the next chapter in the continuing saga. Or don't.
(It's not like I'll know.)
Peace and pigtails, friends.
We often book gigs out of town, which means that just like any businessman (or woman), we end up with our own processes of packing (often bringing just the barest essentials) and operating from a foreign location.
I was thinking about this as I packed my two suitcases to the absolute brim with enough clothes to make it through a couple of weeks as well as my "show gear" which includes my entire makeup case, rehearsal shoes, tights, 'show bras', script, music, etc. Now, while I've gone out of town to do shows before, I think this is actually the longest out-of-town run that I've done to date. I have been spoiled rotten.
True to form, I overpacked.
Not only do I actually have enough clothes (I packed a ton - including more panties than I even knew I owned) but I also packed my laptop, my video camera, my still camera, two research books for a project I'm writing, five fiction books, my knitting, scores of sheet music (to whittle down for season general auditions this year), six pairs of shoes, a blow-dryer, two curling irons and a flatiron.
BOTH of my suitcases required a good amount of pushing, pulling and sitting to get them comfortably closed and secured. In addition to that, it was clear that one of my bags was quite obviously over 50lbs. (The weight limit for United's luggage policy.) I packed and repacked to redistribute some of the weight, but it just wasn't working. I could tell that the larger suitcase was over 50lbs, but there was nothing I could do. I hoped beyond hope that I'd end up in a long line with impatient TSA agents who didn't want to weigh them, but figured I'd be paying through the nose once I got there.
It was 6:30am on Monday when Jay dropped me off at the airport. With my heavy bags and such, I figured it'd be easier to let the skycap at the curb hook me up, so as Jay and I said our goodbyes, I made eye contact with the tall, handsome fellah at the counter - indicating that I was gonna be moving his way next. He asked where I was headed and set about checking me in as he grabbed the larger of the two bags. I watched his face as he lifted it and our eyes met at that instant - there was no way to hide the fact that I knew the bag was heavy. I knew. He knew I knew. There was no way out.
And so he said, "You're aware of the fees for checking bags?"
And I said, "Yessir. If I could have fit it all into one bag, I would have."
And he said, "Well, this one feels like it might be a bit overweight."
And I said, "Sssshhhhhh! The bag will hear you!"
Then I continued, "You see, my luggage is simply experiencing the sympathetic symptoms of MY being overweight and 'between sizes' right now. Something I hope we'll both be able to remedy in the upcoming weeks. I certainly don't want my baggage being penalized because of my baggage."
(ending with a wink and a flash of the Watson smile - complete with dimples)
He charged me for my two bags. No overweight baggage fee.
God bless that beautiful black man and his sense of humor/pity on a poor actress.
And so I was on my way! I made it through security without TSA pawing through my backpack or feeling me up. Which is kind-of a disappointment. I got so used to having my carry-on handchecked at security that I started putting random items in my carry-on just for fun. Nothing contraband... just goofy or odd. Like a random pair of panties - which is actually practical in case you DO get separated from your luggage - or a single sock, a bizarre book, etc.
Since I printed my boarding passes online and flew through security without any trouble, I had about an hour and a half to kill before boarding. Enter my favorite airport game: People Watching!!!
Unfortunately, the pickings are pretty slim at 6:30 am. The usual business travelers - identified by their business suits and lack of luggage (save for the leather overnight bag or the custom case for their laptops), the occasional families or couples dotting the hectic-yet-barren landscape, and the random cute kid here and there.
I quickly grew bored and decided to pop open my book instead. Just as I was engrossed in the story before me, a woman stopped directly in front of me. I saw her boots first and looked up to see a slender woman in her 40's who looked like a cross between Joan Jett and Stevie Nicks. Skinny jeans tucked into knee-high caramel boots, layered tanks and a black leather jacket. Our eyes met and she gave a 'Hrmph', turned on her heel, and walked away briskly.
"Hrmph?" What did that mean?
She had a curious inflection, as if to say, "Well, isn't that strange/interesting/bizarre?"
I looked around, but no one else was close by.
I dismissed it as a case of "she-thought-I-was-someone-else" syndrome and let it go... but obviously I'm still puzzled by the random stranger 'Hrmph-ing' at me.
We boarded without incident (this was the first leg of my flight from Phx to Denver to Arkansas) and I ended up in an aisle seat.
To my left (across the aisle) was a mom with a 4-month-old baby. I groaned inwardly, and felt guilty for it when the baby turned out to be a champ of a li'l traveler. He fussed for all of 30 seconds before mom popped a bottle in his mouth and rocked him to sleep.
To my right was a (very) large woman who was occupying both of the seats next to me. Both the window and the middle seat were taken up by her right and left butt-cheeks, respectively. I gave a friendly 'Hello' as I sat down. She somehow said 'Hi' without moving her mouth and promptly gave me her back as she fiddled with the window shade.
About five minutes into our flight she opened her carry-on and started munching on the foulest smelling corn nuts EVER. I decided to try to nap and let my head loll attractively to my left side so as to avoid drooling over my seatmate should I fall asleep.
I began to doze, but woke to the announcement of beverage service just as the party gal to my right was opening a package of licorice.
Now, having been a hefty girl myself for a good period of time, I'm generally not concerned with the eating habits of others. At my top weight, I was 209lbs. I ate when I was anxious, stressed, lonely, bored or sad. I understand how easy it is to let bad habits spiral and how hard it is to face the disappointment or condemnation of loved ones and strangers alike. (I replaced comfort-eating with comfort-smoking, so it's not like the underlying issues magically disappeared in my life. I certainly ain't no poster child for healthy living.)
HOWEVER, I watched this lady eat cornnuts, Red Vines, Chips, cookies, and what looked like a Moon Pie (I love those!) within the first 15-20 minutes of our flight. I dozed off again and was again woken when the flight attendant reached past me to hand my traveling companion a Coke. She looked at it, frowned, and handed it back to the gal with, "No, a DIET Coke, please."
I didn't mean to, but my mouth gaped open before I was conscious that I was now staring at her. I'm sure my face had the expression of, "Really?" I almost laughed out loud in spite of myself.
I'm a judgmental asshole, I know.
And while I'm on the subject... While waiting at the Denver airport to board the flight to Little Rock, my darling friend Lillian arrived and saved me from boredom with cheery chit-chat and catching up on the last few months since we've seen each other. We were deep into our gossip session when a woman in her late 40's to early 50's skipped by - yes, skipped - wearing green running shorts (circa 1970) white tube socks with a green stripe at the top (also circa 1970) a white T-shirt and pigtails. Yes, pigtails... adorned with curly green and white ribbons. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and explained to Lillian that she must be a Girl Scout troupe leader. It is cookie season, after all. I don't know if she's eligible for 'fashion forgiveness', but I do have to applaud her for her ability to skip through an airport without a care in the world. Even if I raised an eyebrow at her choice of hairstyle, I had to smile at the real-life 'Baby Jane' phenom.
We arrived in Little Rock on-time and were greeted by some of the friendliest production staff ever - and some of the unfriendliest storm clouds. It was rainy and cold, but there was still a buzz of energy in the air as we met new friends, reunited with old ones and set off to embark on the adventure that is 'Hairspray' in Arkansas.
So far, the cast is incredibly gorgeous - and they sound as good as they look!! Everyone has been so friendly and open-armed that it feels like coming home, even though I'm in a foreign town. I miss the kids, I miss the cats, I miss the dog, I miss my bed... and I would miss Jason, except for the fact that I've found a suitable replacement here in the South...
Sweet tea.
Glorious, delicious, refreshing, make-my-mouth-so-happy-I-want-to-bathe-in-it, nectar of the gods.
Sweet tea is my new BFF.
At least for the next nine weeks. :)
Stay tuned for the next chapter in the continuing saga. Or don't.
(It's not like I'll know.)
Peace and pigtails, friends.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Countdown to D-Day
My birthday came and went and I'm still alive. So that's a plus!
I was joking with one of my brothers on the phone that as kids we don't always approach the far future with any sense of certainty. I mean, as a teenager, I couldn't picture myself at 35. To me, that was old. My PARENTS were in their 30's for cryin' out loud!!
We talked about our youth and how we all figured I'd be dead before I reached my 30's. I had a whirlwind 'growing up' experience between the ages of 18 and 22... but even that didn't bring as much wisdom as that which I acquired between the ages of 22 and 30. Rather than celebrating the day of my birth, it was a celebration of 'Holy Crap, you're still alive!'
Nothing like siblings to cheerfully remind you of your mortality.
Jerk.
And so the month culminated in my birthday and my last show at Broadway Palm with the 'Murder on the Strip' cast. They sent me off with a sweet speech and an awesome card at the end of the show - which will join several other cards in my 'love box' and travel with me to Little Rock.
Which is where I'm off to on Monday!
The past two weeks has been the chaos of packing and settling everything at home so I can vacate the state for two months.
Two months.
Holy crap.
I've got three pet projects in the works, all of which can still be worked on - no matter where I am - so it's not like I'm going to be missing out on a ton of my daily routine. I'll still actually have to 'work' in addition to doing the show. But I will be separated from my creature comforts... and that's when I realize what a diva I am on the inside.
And by diva, I mean whiny, sniffling baby.
I've managed to convince myself that the kids are going to be fine. They've got their dad takin' care of 'em... and my mom will come to the rescue if and when they need a break. Jason is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and will probably revel in the fact that he doesn't have to share a bathroom or a kitchen with me for a while.
My animals, however... are breaking my heart. (Specifically my 'favorite'.) I don't know how I'm going to make it through without my snuggler (who is incidentally a great critic of audition pieces) and I know he's going to go through some separation anxiety himself. Then again, he'll probably be fine. I'm the one going through separation anxiety. And over cats? Really? I swear I'm going insane.
I can't wait to meet the new cast and start rehearsals for Hairspray. I loved doing this show and can't wait to see how it morphs - as every show does with its unique cast dynamic.
You'll probably see a little more activity on the blog (I hope). Most of it is just a way to keep family and friends updated on the goings-on without inundating Facebook with my ramblings. I'm excited about the time I'll be spending writing, at least.
I'm also excited about being reunited with some dearly loved friends and getting to see a little bit of Arkansas. I've packed my blue dress for a trip to the Clinton Presidential Library! :)
Last weekend with the fam, and it's gonna be a busy one!!
I was joking with one of my brothers on the phone that as kids we don't always approach the far future with any sense of certainty. I mean, as a teenager, I couldn't picture myself at 35. To me, that was old. My PARENTS were in their 30's for cryin' out loud!!
We talked about our youth and how we all figured I'd be dead before I reached my 30's. I had a whirlwind 'growing up' experience between the ages of 18 and 22... but even that didn't bring as much wisdom as that which I acquired between the ages of 22 and 30. Rather than celebrating the day of my birth, it was a celebration of 'Holy Crap, you're still alive!'
Nothing like siblings to cheerfully remind you of your mortality.
Jerk.
And so the month culminated in my birthday and my last show at Broadway Palm with the 'Murder on the Strip' cast. They sent me off with a sweet speech and an awesome card at the end of the show - which will join several other cards in my 'love box' and travel with me to Little Rock.
Which is where I'm off to on Monday!
The past two weeks has been the chaos of packing and settling everything at home so I can vacate the state for two months.
Two months.
Holy crap.
I've got three pet projects in the works, all of which can still be worked on - no matter where I am - so it's not like I'm going to be missing out on a ton of my daily routine. I'll still actually have to 'work' in addition to doing the show. But I will be separated from my creature comforts... and that's when I realize what a diva I am on the inside.
And by diva, I mean whiny, sniffling baby.
I've managed to convince myself that the kids are going to be fine. They've got their dad takin' care of 'em... and my mom will come to the rescue if and when they need a break. Jason is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and will probably revel in the fact that he doesn't have to share a bathroom or a kitchen with me for a while.
My animals, however... are breaking my heart. (Specifically my 'favorite'.) I don't know how I'm going to make it through without my snuggler (who is incidentally a great critic of audition pieces) and I know he's going to go through some separation anxiety himself. Then again, he'll probably be fine. I'm the one going through separation anxiety. And over cats? Really? I swear I'm going insane.
I can't wait to meet the new cast and start rehearsals for Hairspray. I loved doing this show and can't wait to see how it morphs - as every show does with its unique cast dynamic.
You'll probably see a little more activity on the blog (I hope). Most of it is just a way to keep family and friends updated on the goings-on without inundating Facebook with my ramblings. I'm excited about the time I'll be spending writing, at least.
I'm also excited about being reunited with some dearly loved friends and getting to see a little bit of Arkansas. I've packed my blue dress for a trip to the Clinton Presidential Library! :)
Last weekend with the fam, and it's gonna be a busy one!!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
'Tis a Mystery
Jiminy Christmas, I haven't blogged in over a month... almost 6 weeks.
I will blame this partially on the fact that nothing life-changing or earth-shattering or deeply profound has happened in the past many weeks. (Then again, if you believe in the 'butterfly effect', everything has the potential to be life-changing and/or earth-shattering... but I digress.)
I have been doing the murder mystery dinner theatre show at Broadway Palm in their Marquee Theatre. Boy, has it been a challenge! A good challenge, but a challenge nevertheless.
When I returned to theatre after having my children, I eased in gently (or so I thought) by joining the cast of an interactive dinner theatre. Little did I know at the time, but I would meet artists who would not only impact my life but that I would reconnect with in other avenues later in my career.
My 'love interest' was no other than Jim 'Doc' Coates, my cohort and leading lady were Kristi Smith and Barbara Ellis, the crooner and voice of the Mystery Mansion was Jackson Fisher... and so it was that I began a long-standing routine of weekends spent schlepping plates and hawking storylines to unruly or disinterested crowds from the summer of '98 to the Fall of '99.
For those who have never done interactive dinner theatre, I'll try to give a quick rundown.
Remember those murder mystery dinner parties that were all the rage in the '80's and '90's? No? Then you're clearly too young to be reading my blog. Go turn on TMZ and let the grown-ups talk.
So, think of one of those parties, but on the scale of 100 'guests'; each with an identity and relationship to one of the primary characters/suspects. Some individuals have lines in the 'show', some have clues... and the more you interact with the other guests, the more info you gain in solving the mystery.
Not only is there a 'script' to learn, but there is a huge element of improv involved. No two shows are ever alike. The 'killer' rotates each weekend with the coinciding clues/props track... and because the audience is the final 'character' in a complete production and no two audiences are the same... well, it makes for one interesting piece of theatre.
I had actually vowed that I would never do dinner theatre again. It was especially grueling when I was waiting tables during the day and then waiting tables on the weekends (in uncomfortable shoes and with a script to follow). I burned out quick and soon realized that I much more enjoyed the (uninterrupted) luxury of full-scale productions with complete through-lines and character arcs. (Not that I didn't play my share of chorus gals and spear-carriers.)
However, I found myself reunited with Jackson and Doc for a reading of Jackson's newly written show... and serendipity reigned supreme when The Broadway Palm picked it up and Jackson asked if I'd be interested in joining the cast until I leave for The Rep in March.
The pay is decent and the show itself is not nearly as difficult as some of the material I've done in past productions, but the experience itself is a challenge... and has reintroduced me to some of the lessons I had forgotten about the necessity of improv skills and thinking on your feet (especially with the many factors involved with live theatre). Just tonight, we dealt (rather gracefully) with a very sick leading lady sans voice and a leading man running in at the last minute after his return flight was delayed... among the typical bumps and rifts that make every night unique.
This element also leaves me exhausted at the end of the show. There is a lot of energy expended in those three epic hours... but I feel good at the end of the night - like I've worked - and I've had a blast with the BPW crew.
I'll have one more weekend of performances with this cast before they break for a week and put the new cast together.
I'm getting excited and anxious about the new adventure that awaits me in Little Rock, and I can't wait to meet the rest of the Hairspray cast and love on the friends that I've been missing over the past couple of months.
And on that note, I must get some rest before tomorrow's matinee. Gotta bring my 'A' game... someone's gonna want hot tea.
I will blame this partially on the fact that nothing life-changing or earth-shattering or deeply profound has happened in the past many weeks. (Then again, if you believe in the 'butterfly effect', everything has the potential to be life-changing and/or earth-shattering... but I digress.)
I have been doing the murder mystery dinner theatre show at Broadway Palm in their Marquee Theatre. Boy, has it been a challenge! A good challenge, but a challenge nevertheless.
When I returned to theatre after having my children, I eased in gently (or so I thought) by joining the cast of an interactive dinner theatre. Little did I know at the time, but I would meet artists who would not only impact my life but that I would reconnect with in other avenues later in my career.
My 'love interest' was no other than Jim 'Doc' Coates, my cohort and leading lady were Kristi Smith and Barbara Ellis, the crooner and voice of the Mystery Mansion was Jackson Fisher... and so it was that I began a long-standing routine of weekends spent schlepping plates and hawking storylines to unruly or disinterested crowds from the summer of '98 to the Fall of '99.
For those who have never done interactive dinner theatre, I'll try to give a quick rundown.
Remember those murder mystery dinner parties that were all the rage in the '80's and '90's? No? Then you're clearly too young to be reading my blog. Go turn on TMZ and let the grown-ups talk.
So, think of one of those parties, but on the scale of 100 'guests'; each with an identity and relationship to one of the primary characters/suspects. Some individuals have lines in the 'show', some have clues... and the more you interact with the other guests, the more info you gain in solving the mystery.
Not only is there a 'script' to learn, but there is a huge element of improv involved. No two shows are ever alike. The 'killer' rotates each weekend with the coinciding clues/props track... and because the audience is the final 'character' in a complete production and no two audiences are the same... well, it makes for one interesting piece of theatre.
I had actually vowed that I would never do dinner theatre again. It was especially grueling when I was waiting tables during the day and then waiting tables on the weekends (in uncomfortable shoes and with a script to follow). I burned out quick and soon realized that I much more enjoyed the (uninterrupted) luxury of full-scale productions with complete through-lines and character arcs. (Not that I didn't play my share of chorus gals and spear-carriers.)
However, I found myself reunited with Jackson and Doc for a reading of Jackson's newly written show... and serendipity reigned supreme when The Broadway Palm picked it up and Jackson asked if I'd be interested in joining the cast until I leave for The Rep in March.
The pay is decent and the show itself is not nearly as difficult as some of the material I've done in past productions, but the experience itself is a challenge... and has reintroduced me to some of the lessons I had forgotten about the necessity of improv skills and thinking on your feet (especially with the many factors involved with live theatre). Just tonight, we dealt (rather gracefully) with a very sick leading lady sans voice and a leading man running in at the last minute after his return flight was delayed... among the typical bumps and rifts that make every night unique.
This element also leaves me exhausted at the end of the show. There is a lot of energy expended in those three epic hours... but I feel good at the end of the night - like I've worked - and I've had a blast with the BPW crew.
I'll have one more weekend of performances with this cast before they break for a week and put the new cast together.
I'm getting excited and anxious about the new adventure that awaits me in Little Rock, and I can't wait to meet the rest of the Hairspray cast and love on the friends that I've been missing over the past couple of months.
And on that note, I must get some rest before tomorrow's matinee. Gotta bring my 'A' game... someone's gonna want hot tea.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Less Politics. More Art, Please.
I went to the museum on a cold day in December.
It wasn't my intended destination, but I had arrived in the city ahead of traffic and had an hour of time to spare. The wind was strong and the cold biting. For a minute I contemplated converting to the popular American pastime of 'Starbucks', but since I can't stand coffee, I opted for the museum instead.
It was early on a week day and I counted three other patrons other than myself. I hadn't seen the fourth until I rounded the corner and was struck by a colorful canvas, the expanse of which covered enough of the wall that no other art accompanied the piece.
My response to this artwork was emotional and immediate. As with any art, I find myself equally moved (or unaffected) by both the message/theme/content of the art as well as the skill with which the art has been created. The words of a well-written song will make me cry even if the singer lacks the skill to convey their true depth. Contrary to that, a simple portrait painted masterfully will keep me mesmerized.
And so it is that I was so mesmerized by this piece, I didn't notice the older gentleman until I nearly sat on top of him, my eyes still glued to the fine details of the large canvas. He was hunched over, his hands clasped between his knees. His eyes, hidden by huge glasses, seemed transfixed by the masterpiece before him. He looked surprised by my whispered apology as if he hadn't even noticed my ample bottom sashaying in to obstruct his view.
I side-stepped and sat beside him on the bench. In the brief moment that our eyes met, it was clear that we were both fighting back tears... and as I sat down to contemplate why the piece had touched me the way it had, I heard a half-sigh/half-sob from the stranger next to me.
He broke the silence referring to the historical scene before us by asking if I was an aficionado. "Of neither history nor art," I replied. But we struck up an easy, casual banter about a shared appreciation for both the skill of the artist and both the noble honor and tragedy of war portrayed.
We shed tears together, this stranger and I, before he put his warm, aged hand on mine and wished me a blessed holiday as he got up and slowly left the quiet solace we shared. I wondered to myself at the beauty behind art and its ability to bring two completely different people together in a shared moment of humanity.
The piece had an impact, but I had forgotten about the man shortly after I returned to my busy day of appointments and rehearsals.
Until he went to an event on a cold day in January.
He was one of five people murdered in my home state as a young man opened fire on a state representative, her staff and bystanders. Reports say that he dove onto his wife, who had been shot in the leg several times. He died in her arms after being fatally shot in the head.
The social media erupted immediately with the political spin machines on both side going into overdrive as everyone scrambled for someone to blame.
"Sarah Palin has cross-hairs on her website!"
"The shooter was a left-wing pothead!"
And my heart breaks for the lack of humanity. The lack of understanding. The lack of common sense.
Rather than pointing fingers at political factions or demographics, we need to be doing the opposite. There are zealots and mentally unstable individuals in every race, religion, organization, class and subculture. And we are collectively responsible for creating the exclusive, divisive culture in which tolerance is unacceptable and voter registration cards run thicker than blood.
It is possible to disagree and still love, respect and honor one another.
There were no political lines dividing those two strangers on the bench. There was only a brief connection over a shared moment of humanity explored and beauty appreciated.
My heart breaks for this state. For this nation. For our families and our politicians. We have forgotten so much so quickly.
The tears I shed are for a stranger I didn't know, but who was beautiful in some way... no matter what his politics.
It wasn't my intended destination, but I had arrived in the city ahead of traffic and had an hour of time to spare. The wind was strong and the cold biting. For a minute I contemplated converting to the popular American pastime of 'Starbucks', but since I can't stand coffee, I opted for the museum instead.
It was early on a week day and I counted three other patrons other than myself. I hadn't seen the fourth until I rounded the corner and was struck by a colorful canvas, the expanse of which covered enough of the wall that no other art accompanied the piece.
My response to this artwork was emotional and immediate. As with any art, I find myself equally moved (or unaffected) by both the message/theme/content of the art as well as the skill with which the art has been created. The words of a well-written song will make me cry even if the singer lacks the skill to convey their true depth. Contrary to that, a simple portrait painted masterfully will keep me mesmerized.
And so it is that I was so mesmerized by this piece, I didn't notice the older gentleman until I nearly sat on top of him, my eyes still glued to the fine details of the large canvas. He was hunched over, his hands clasped between his knees. His eyes, hidden by huge glasses, seemed transfixed by the masterpiece before him. He looked surprised by my whispered apology as if he hadn't even noticed my ample bottom sashaying in to obstruct his view.
I side-stepped and sat beside him on the bench. In the brief moment that our eyes met, it was clear that we were both fighting back tears... and as I sat down to contemplate why the piece had touched me the way it had, I heard a half-sigh/half-sob from the stranger next to me.
He broke the silence referring to the historical scene before us by asking if I was an aficionado. "Of neither history nor art," I replied. But we struck up an easy, casual banter about a shared appreciation for both the skill of the artist and both the noble honor and tragedy of war portrayed.
We shed tears together, this stranger and I, before he put his warm, aged hand on mine and wished me a blessed holiday as he got up and slowly left the quiet solace we shared. I wondered to myself at the beauty behind art and its ability to bring two completely different people together in a shared moment of humanity.
The piece had an impact, but I had forgotten about the man shortly after I returned to my busy day of appointments and rehearsals.
Until he went to an event on a cold day in January.
He was one of five people murdered in my home state as a young man opened fire on a state representative, her staff and bystanders. Reports say that he dove onto his wife, who had been shot in the leg several times. He died in her arms after being fatally shot in the head.
The social media erupted immediately with the political spin machines on both side going into overdrive as everyone scrambled for someone to blame.
"Sarah Palin has cross-hairs on her website!"
"The shooter was a left-wing pothead!"
And my heart breaks for the lack of humanity. The lack of understanding. The lack of common sense.
Rather than pointing fingers at political factions or demographics, we need to be doing the opposite. There are zealots and mentally unstable individuals in every race, religion, organization, class and subculture. And we are collectively responsible for creating the exclusive, divisive culture in which tolerance is unacceptable and voter registration cards run thicker than blood.
It is possible to disagree and still love, respect and honor one another.
There were no political lines dividing those two strangers on the bench. There was only a brief connection over a shared moment of humanity explored and beauty appreciated.
My heart breaks for this state. For this nation. For our families and our politicians. We have forgotten so much so quickly.
The tears I shed are for a stranger I didn't know, but who was beautiful in some way... no matter what his politics.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Playing Catch-Up
Wow.... so, haven't blogged since Thanksgiving, which means this one will probably be epic as there are many events and issues to cover. (Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm ovulating, which means I'm long-winded and emotional.) My apologies in advance.
Thanksgiving was awesome as was the arrival of early December and (finally) some cooler temperatures in the good ol' 'Zona desert.
Then 'Hairspray' closed and we all cried.
Seriously.
I spiraled into a sullen depression that lasted about three days - which was all the luxury I had before the next script was begging to be re-read and highlighted in anticipation of those rehearsals.
On December 18th, my son... my first born... the light of my life... turned 17.
That ungrateful little betrayer of my youth and vigor. How dare he!!
I also managed to throw my back out during his birthday week, rendering me mostly useless around the house and feelin' like the crazy ol' cat lady on the corner who takes a half-hour just to shuffle down her own driveway like Quasimodo to get the damn mail.
Thank God it happened after the show closed. Not only would it have been brutal to perform in that kind of pain, but my cast would have never let me live it down! Oh, that my middle name were 'Grace'.
I had two weeks to rush the rest of my holiday shopping, house decorating, socializing and errand running before Christmas, which was also uber-awesome.
Now, I don't know about other families, but our little collective of the kids and Jay and I have a VERY hard time keeping secrets. I have tried (and failed) many times at being prepared for Christmas by doing my shopping in September or October... and after two weeks of having the presents in my closet (or other hiding place) I have observed a dozen instances in which said items would have had some practical use or been otherwise appreciated. So, I'll wrap the presents to keep me from spoiling the surprise and just handing them over. By the end of October, beginning of November, the suspense kills me and end up insisting that they be opened and enjoyed. Leaving nothing for Christmas.
And so, this is a time in which my natural tendency to procrastinate actually comes in handy. We managed to stave off the desire to preempt the past few Christmases and continued a family tradition of celebrating on Christmas Eve with a small gift exchange. We usually split Christmas day between my extended family and theatre family/friends while the kids spend the second half of Christmas with their dad.
This year, our celebrations were planned out for three days solid. Our celebration, then my family and some friends on Christmas day and then with my mom, stepdad, brothers, niece(s) and nephews on the day after Christmas.
Because the kids are at an age where the mystery of Santa Claus is no longer, we pulled a full-on bonanza late in the evening on Christmas Eve and let everyone rip into all of their presents (stockings and all).
It was a great Christmas. Wonderful to see friends and family that we don't see often (or at all) during the rest of the year. But it also makes me feel bad to realize how little I see my actual blood (and married) relations - even though we all live within several miles of each other. (Except Justin who had to go and move to Alabama. Party-poopin' home-wrecker.)
Which brings me to relocating. Well... that's gonna be a long one. We'll come back to that.
The New Year came and went without much fanfare. The kids divided their attention between movies, games, texts and Facebook, looking up long for all of us to wish one another a Happy New Year. I think I was asleep by 1am. The kids stayed up 'til 3. Another sign that I'm getting old. Thanks, kids.
Last week was supposed to be an 'easy' week, but I found myself a bit behind on things like taking down decorations and memorizing lines. In addition, two family friends passed away last week. Two memorials in four days, singing at one and reading at the other. I also made another realization. I cannot sing at the memorials of people I know. Readings are fine. No problem. But singing... First, I cannot sing spiritual songs without breaking down. It's odd... even old hymns that I used to sing on a regular basis with nary a tear in my eye. And I even claim that I'm not a 'religious' person. I consider myself spiritual, but I disagree with most organized (and all zealous) religions. Yet have me sing any song related to God or grace or crosses or heaven and I'm a blubbering mess of snot, ugly-cryin' all over the first three pews. Add to that the setting of grief and loss on the faces of people you love and care for... well, it's just hard. I don't care how professional you are.
I tried to hold it together by playing a word-association game in my head with neutral, inane objects - "I 'cling' to the old rugged cross" became a picture of a dryer sheet in my head - and that helped me keep things together somewhat, but my voice still warbled and cracked. I don't do 'grief' well and my heart aches for suffering... whether it be Christ or Joe Schmoe on the street.
It hit me hard that friends and family are passing away with more frequency as I get older and my social and familial circles widen. It's just a fact of life, but this mortality thing has me reeling on a regular basis. I could get all deep and theological about the 'meaning of life' and 'leaving our mark', 'making a difference' and the legacies we leave behind, but it's too early for that just now.
Which will awkwardly bring me back to relocating.
It also hit me pretty hard that this last holiday might be one of the last Christmases I get to spend with my family. No, not 'cuz anyone is getting ready to kick it or anything. We Watsons are a hearty bunch.
But because I have long daydreamed of leaving Arizona... and that possibility seems to be getting closer and closer with each passing day.
Whether you want to blame it on temperament (I'm sanguine) or Zodiacal sign (I'm a Pisces) or personality (I'm ENFP), I don't really 'plan' well. I daydream. I make lists of goals, sure. I have an Excel spreadsheet with both long-term and short-term goals separated into columns of financial, personal, and professional goals. But as the list goes on, the goals sound more like the imaginings of a seven-year-old fairy princess than a 35-year-old actress and single mother of two. I just remembered that my birthday is next month. Oh dear. I'm gonna try and forget again.
Not much has been crossed off of my list of financial goals, except for the fact that I've managed to get out of debt. I pay cash whenever I can and no longer own a credit card (save for the emergency one that is directly linked to my savings account). I own my car, rent my house, and my biggest expense is the fact that I splurge monthly for extended cable and high-speed internet. (I know, I'm just pissing it away, aren't I?)
But the personal and professional goals have been steadily disappearing - and replaced by new goals with a higher bar or loftier standard.
The kids are almost both of driving age. Only two more years and they'll be out of High School.
When I've talked about leaving, one of the caveats was that the kids would have to be old enough and independent enough to be able to travel back and forth and acclimate to cities outside of their birth state. And they're both now at an age where they see the opportunity as an adventure more than a traumatic experience, which makes me consider the possibility more of a reality.
Between the recent elections and passed bills, I have been feeling politically like a bit of a stranger in a strange land. The most recent shootings in Tucson have me questioning even more if this is the place I want to live for the rest of my life. Hell, I don't know if ANY place is the one place I want to live for the rest of my life. Yes, I have commitment issues.
I've often considered throwing my name in the hat to be a cruise entertainer, but I have many friends working that circuit and know how grueling that work can be. Perhaps ten years ago...
As it is, I'm looking forward to the eight weeks I'll be in Arkansas. We'll just call it a 'test run'. :)
In the meantime, my current stress is finding a new place to live. The house that I currently rent is in danger of foreclosing. The owner has offered to terminate my lease early so that he can attempt a short-sale, but that means scrambling to find a suitable alternative and pack this place up, which has accumulated a fair amount of clutter in the past two years. Oy vey.
It wouldn't be so bad except that I just started rehearsing a new show at the theatre down the street. No, really. 3/4 of a mile from my house.
We open 'Murder on the Strip' this Friday at Broadway Palm in the Marquee Theatre. It's an interactive murder mystery dinner-theatre show that is a lot of fun. High-speed, low-drag, and very little stress. I guess you could say that playing M.C. has been the perfect rebound relationship after breaking it off with Velma. Don't worry... I'll go running back into her arms in March. She only hits me 'cuz she loves me.
So, I will return to my early-morning perusal of rental ads and wonder how much longer I'll call Arizona home. A year? Two? Five? God, I hope not five.
I miss my friends.
Hopefully, they will forgive my absence over the chaotic past month and go have a drink with me next week after the show is opened and help me sort out the crazy mess that is my life. We might even solve world hunger while we're at it.
Martini Monday, anyone?
Sushi?
Anyone???
Thanksgiving was awesome as was the arrival of early December and (finally) some cooler temperatures in the good ol' 'Zona desert.
Then 'Hairspray' closed and we all cried.
Seriously.
I spiraled into a sullen depression that lasted about three days - which was all the luxury I had before the next script was begging to be re-read and highlighted in anticipation of those rehearsals.
On December 18th, my son... my first born... the light of my life... turned 17.
That ungrateful little betrayer of my youth and vigor. How dare he!!
I also managed to throw my back out during his birthday week, rendering me mostly useless around the house and feelin' like the crazy ol' cat lady on the corner who takes a half-hour just to shuffle down her own driveway like Quasimodo to get the damn mail.
Thank God it happened after the show closed. Not only would it have been brutal to perform in that kind of pain, but my cast would have never let me live it down! Oh, that my middle name were 'Grace'.
I had two weeks to rush the rest of my holiday shopping, house decorating, socializing and errand running before Christmas, which was also uber-awesome.
Now, I don't know about other families, but our little collective of the kids and Jay and I have a VERY hard time keeping secrets. I have tried (and failed) many times at being prepared for Christmas by doing my shopping in September or October... and after two weeks of having the presents in my closet (or other hiding place) I have observed a dozen instances in which said items would have had some practical use or been otherwise appreciated. So, I'll wrap the presents to keep me from spoiling the surprise and just handing them over. By the end of October, beginning of November, the suspense kills me and end up insisting that they be opened and enjoyed. Leaving nothing for Christmas.
And so, this is a time in which my natural tendency to procrastinate actually comes in handy. We managed to stave off the desire to preempt the past few Christmases and continued a family tradition of celebrating on Christmas Eve with a small gift exchange. We usually split Christmas day between my extended family and theatre family/friends while the kids spend the second half of Christmas with their dad.
This year, our celebrations were planned out for three days solid. Our celebration, then my family and some friends on Christmas day and then with my mom, stepdad, brothers, niece(s) and nephews on the day after Christmas.
Because the kids are at an age where the mystery of Santa Claus is no longer, we pulled a full-on bonanza late in the evening on Christmas Eve and let everyone rip into all of their presents (stockings and all).
It was a great Christmas. Wonderful to see friends and family that we don't see often (or at all) during the rest of the year. But it also makes me feel bad to realize how little I see my actual blood (and married) relations - even though we all live within several miles of each other. (Except Justin who had to go and move to Alabama. Party-poopin' home-wrecker.)
Which brings me to relocating. Well... that's gonna be a long one. We'll come back to that.
The New Year came and went without much fanfare. The kids divided their attention between movies, games, texts and Facebook, looking up long for all of us to wish one another a Happy New Year. I think I was asleep by 1am. The kids stayed up 'til 3. Another sign that I'm getting old. Thanks, kids.
Last week was supposed to be an 'easy' week, but I found myself a bit behind on things like taking down decorations and memorizing lines. In addition, two family friends passed away last week. Two memorials in four days, singing at one and reading at the other. I also made another realization. I cannot sing at the memorials of people I know. Readings are fine. No problem. But singing... First, I cannot sing spiritual songs without breaking down. It's odd... even old hymns that I used to sing on a regular basis with nary a tear in my eye. And I even claim that I'm not a 'religious' person. I consider myself spiritual, but I disagree with most organized (and all zealous) religions. Yet have me sing any song related to God or grace or crosses or heaven and I'm a blubbering mess of snot, ugly-cryin' all over the first three pews. Add to that the setting of grief and loss on the faces of people you love and care for... well, it's just hard. I don't care how professional you are.
I tried to hold it together by playing a word-association game in my head with neutral, inane objects - "I 'cling' to the old rugged cross" became a picture of a dryer sheet in my head - and that helped me keep things together somewhat, but my voice still warbled and cracked. I don't do 'grief' well and my heart aches for suffering... whether it be Christ or Joe Schmoe on the street.
It hit me hard that friends and family are passing away with more frequency as I get older and my social and familial circles widen. It's just a fact of life, but this mortality thing has me reeling on a regular basis. I could get all deep and theological about the 'meaning of life' and 'leaving our mark', 'making a difference' and the legacies we leave behind, but it's too early for that just now.
Which will awkwardly bring me back to relocating.
It also hit me pretty hard that this last holiday might be one of the last Christmases I get to spend with my family. No, not 'cuz anyone is getting ready to kick it or anything. We Watsons are a hearty bunch.
But because I have long daydreamed of leaving Arizona... and that possibility seems to be getting closer and closer with each passing day.
Whether you want to blame it on temperament (I'm sanguine) or Zodiacal sign (I'm a Pisces) or personality (I'm ENFP), I don't really 'plan' well. I daydream. I make lists of goals, sure. I have an Excel spreadsheet with both long-term and short-term goals separated into columns of financial, personal, and professional goals. But as the list goes on, the goals sound more like the imaginings of a seven-year-old fairy princess than a 35-year-old actress and single mother of two. I just remembered that my birthday is next month. Oh dear. I'm gonna try and forget again.
Not much has been crossed off of my list of financial goals, except for the fact that I've managed to get out of debt. I pay cash whenever I can and no longer own a credit card (save for the emergency one that is directly linked to my savings account). I own my car, rent my house, and my biggest expense is the fact that I splurge monthly for extended cable and high-speed internet. (I know, I'm just pissing it away, aren't I?)
But the personal and professional goals have been steadily disappearing - and replaced by new goals with a higher bar or loftier standard.
The kids are almost both of driving age. Only two more years and they'll be out of High School.
When I've talked about leaving, one of the caveats was that the kids would have to be old enough and independent enough to be able to travel back and forth and acclimate to cities outside of their birth state. And they're both now at an age where they see the opportunity as an adventure more than a traumatic experience, which makes me consider the possibility more of a reality.
Between the recent elections and passed bills, I have been feeling politically like a bit of a stranger in a strange land. The most recent shootings in Tucson have me questioning even more if this is the place I want to live for the rest of my life. Hell, I don't know if ANY place is the one place I want to live for the rest of my life. Yes, I have commitment issues.
I've often considered throwing my name in the hat to be a cruise entertainer, but I have many friends working that circuit and know how grueling that work can be. Perhaps ten years ago...
As it is, I'm looking forward to the eight weeks I'll be in Arkansas. We'll just call it a 'test run'. :)
In the meantime, my current stress is finding a new place to live. The house that I currently rent is in danger of foreclosing. The owner has offered to terminate my lease early so that he can attempt a short-sale, but that means scrambling to find a suitable alternative and pack this place up, which has accumulated a fair amount of clutter in the past two years. Oy vey.
It wouldn't be so bad except that I just started rehearsing a new show at the theatre down the street. No, really. 3/4 of a mile from my house.
We open 'Murder on the Strip' this Friday at Broadway Palm in the Marquee Theatre. It's an interactive murder mystery dinner-theatre show that is a lot of fun. High-speed, low-drag, and very little stress. I guess you could say that playing M.C. has been the perfect rebound relationship after breaking it off with Velma. Don't worry... I'll go running back into her arms in March. She only hits me 'cuz she loves me.
So, I will return to my early-morning perusal of rental ads and wonder how much longer I'll call Arizona home. A year? Two? Five? God, I hope not five.
I miss my friends.
Hopefully, they will forgive my absence over the chaotic past month and go have a drink with me next week after the show is opened and help me sort out the crazy mess that is my life. We might even solve world hunger while we're at it.
Martini Monday, anyone?
Sushi?
Anyone???
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