31 December 2013
No end of year reflections for me.
I just need to burn off some blogs, it's been a while and I'm behind.
Today's topic is John Denver.
I grew up listening to specific vinyl records my mom had: Elvis---specifically Blue Hawaii which was on blue vinyl and we weren't allowed to touch. The Everly Brothers, who I credit with my love of harmony. The Smothers Brothers, who are the source of my early understanding of humor along with my dad's extensive collection of K-TEL 40 Funky Hits. The Carptenters, God Bless Karen Carpenter, everyone could sing along in her vocal range.
And John Denver.
In addition to the vinyl exposure, my mom learned to play guitar. In my memory, she learned it from a PBS show, like the guy who teaches you to paint. But mom learned to play guitar. She would sit in front of the TV with her guitar and follow along. I'm told by mom that my memory is "weird", so that may or may not be accurate in reality. I also remember her watching a show about a guy who could bend a spoon with his mind and trying it in our kitchen. Anyway, she played guitar a lot, and part of the 1970's Guitar Club Membership was to know songs by John Denver.
I know every song by heart. I know the harmonies and even though I haven't picked up a guitar in years, I could probably figure out the chords.
When my own children were small, I played neither the guitar or John Denver. I blasted The Beastie Boys as we pulled into the elementary school parking lot, and the girls developed a personal love for Queen, specifically Bicycle Races, and for Jane's Addiction- the song they called "The dog barking song." They needed more variety than just the XM kids station, however, thanks to XM Kids I still listen to John Lithgow's children's songs. "Big kids scare the heck out of me, big kids scare the heck out of me, whenever I see them gosh oh gee....big kids scare the heck out of meeeee."
When we moved out of civilization and away from our walking distance preschool, park, library and coffee shop, I realized that suburbia has no place to walk to that is cool. So we started driving to Evergreen a day or two a week, for no reason. It was pretty. We found what we decided was a marmot playing in the creek and named him Ted. The following summer we discvoered Ted had a friend, so we named her Tina. Fourteen years later and we still refer to driving to Evergreen as "going to visit Ted and Tina."
Part of the gig on the drive was to listen to John Denver.
I am unsure how this came about, but it made sense and the girls enjoyed it. Drive to see Ted and Tina, listen to John Denver. Life was simple.
Yesterday, the girls and I decided to drive to Evergreen. I said "for no reason" but of course it was to see Ted and Tina, even though it is winter and they are not home.
Genoa was riding shotgun and therefore was DJ. I asked about John Denver and got a flat "No, I don't have him on my phone."
But on the return trip, Harper was DJ and Country Roads began to play. I smiled and she said "You tube".
All the way home she played John Denver and all the way home we sang along.
My children know all the words.
And I have the harmonies so drilled into my head I can't even try to find the melody line.
And sitting in the backseat, singing along, was Genoa.
Harper kept turning up the volume, and I thought she wanted to blast John Denver as we descended from Evergreen, but I think the truth is she was trying to drown me out.
Last night, while Genoa was at a friend's house and Jim and I were watching Breaking Bad, Harp curled up in her chair and started playing her "Hookers and Cars" game (she got Grand Theft Auto 5 for Christmas. This is an amusing and entertaining game when you have the correct demeanor. Harp has the correct demeanor).
I thought I heard strains of John Denver floating down the stairs, barely audible over the sounds of hookers and stolen cars and gunshots --her game, not Breaking Bad. I came upstairs and looked at Harp, who smiled sheepishly. "What?"
"Do I hear John Denver? With hookers?"
"No." Smile. Back to the game. Puts hand over phone playing Rocky Mountain High. Runs stolen vehicle into a lamp post.
Harper plays guitar. She's been playing since the second grade. But John Denver is not played on her guitar, he is played during botched car theft attempts (Harper is terrible at this game, she runs the cars into cement walls and alleys, mows down pedestrians and spends more time dressing her character than is befitting a car theft professional).
And also he is played during car rides to Evergreen, to get a coffee at Java Groove, check the stream for Ted and Tina. That is also when John Denver is played.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
My Life Would Be Better If I Could Wear Heels With Jeans
I have had stupid arthritis in my feet since high school. Even then I wore wrestling boots or combat boots out of comfort, not fashion. I had to wear red pumps for Anything Goes and it almost killed me. I would force my feet into those shoes on show nights, and occasionally on school days, masking the crippling pain they caused and trying to look like I belonged in a ZZ Top video.
Except those women did not grimace.
My mom had my grandma's old 1940's and 50's patent leather and suede pumps that I would wear periodically. I believe shoes were just made better in those decades, I had no issues in any of the pumps. Maybe because they were a size too big so I could manage, and the black suede 1950's kitten pump looked freaking awesome with my pink leopard print pants. I loved those shoes, I wore them until 1987 when they were stolen along with everything else I owned...but that's a different story (burn in hell Arlington, Texas).
I have long been an admirer of the jean/heel combo. From wedges and bellbottoms to pumps and Brittanias to Karen Walker's suits, I just know that if only I could pull off that look, my life would have turned out much differently. And by "different" I mean "better".
In high school I could wear the combo for a day. In college I wore wrestling boots or tennis shoes or capezio jazz shoes because that's how a theatre major rolls. When I started teaching 10 years ago, I tried again to wear a heel, but I couldn't make it from 146 to the copy room without my gait significantly slowing and my posture shrinking until I looked like an 80 year old. Just give me a cane.
I have given in to Stacy and Clinton's love of pointy toed flats, hoping that will throw people off and they will think I am fashionable. However, for a pointy toe to work on me with my swollen toe joints, they have to be a half size too big, causing me to clip-clop along like a horse. So I don't look or sound so much fashionable as I am,in fact, galumphing and I sound like a Monty Python sketch.
Even my Doc's have started to cause me pain! No! Punk rockers do not die, but they do get arthritis. I have tried to buy flat boots the last few years, and regardless of the cushy Gellin' Like Magellan insoles I still only make it about ten feet before I start limping.
And barefoot is just Right Out, I walk on the outsides of my feet causing delightful balance issues. If I teach mime or combat barefoot, the kids think I'm drunk. So I got that going for me.
Of course my Arthritis Shoes, Teva sandals with a tread, are the only thing I can comfortably wear besides tennis shoes. And apparently, tennis shoes are out unless you are 80 or a gym teacher.
Then there are my tap shoes.
Why in all Blue Perfect Heaven do I continue to teach tap in my Intro classes?
It hurts to put the the shoes on, it hurts walk in the shoes, it is excruciating to time step in them and after two, nintey minute classes back - to -back I have to pry the things off of my swollen, weeping feet AND ice my inflated knees, because I am 80 and my knees are bad as well as my feet...and my hands, I also have arthritis in my fingers, but that's not today's lesson. I do not use my fingers to tap dance.
None of these things would bother me if I could just show up for school wearing a cute pump and a dark wash, designer jean. I would look fabulous and put together and nobody would know about the arthritis.
Okay, granted, I can Show Up wearing a cute pump and a dark wash designer jean, technically, yes. I just cannot climb out of my FJ and up the dock stairs in any fashion that is timely and does NOT look (and sound) like Yoda.
Hold on hold on...waitwaitwait...
Arthritis gets me Yoda status?
Who needs pumps and denim? Gimme a cane!
I will stand in 146 at lunch and say "How you get so big eating food of this kind?"
Yep. That is what is happening. I'm good.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Except those women did not grimace.
My mom had my grandma's old 1940's and 50's patent leather and suede pumps that I would wear periodically. I believe shoes were just made better in those decades, I had no issues in any of the pumps. Maybe because they were a size too big so I could manage, and the black suede 1950's kitten pump looked freaking awesome with my pink leopard print pants. I loved those shoes, I wore them until 1987 when they were stolen along with everything else I owned...but that's a different story (burn in hell Arlington, Texas).
I have long been an admirer of the jean/heel combo. From wedges and bellbottoms to pumps and Brittanias to Karen Walker's suits, I just know that if only I could pull off that look, my life would have turned out much differently. And by "different" I mean "better".
In high school I could wear the combo for a day. In college I wore wrestling boots or tennis shoes or capezio jazz shoes because that's how a theatre major rolls. When I started teaching 10 years ago, I tried again to wear a heel, but I couldn't make it from 146 to the copy room without my gait significantly slowing and my posture shrinking until I looked like an 80 year old. Just give me a cane.
I have given in to Stacy and Clinton's love of pointy toed flats, hoping that will throw people off and they will think I am fashionable. However, for a pointy toe to work on me with my swollen toe joints, they have to be a half size too big, causing me to clip-clop along like a horse. So I don't look or sound so much fashionable as I am,in fact, galumphing and I sound like a Monty Python sketch.
Even my Doc's have started to cause me pain! No! Punk rockers do not die, but they do get arthritis. I have tried to buy flat boots the last few years, and regardless of the cushy Gellin' Like Magellan insoles I still only make it about ten feet before I start limping.
And barefoot is just Right Out, I walk on the outsides of my feet causing delightful balance issues. If I teach mime or combat barefoot, the kids think I'm drunk. So I got that going for me.
Of course my Arthritis Shoes, Teva sandals with a tread, are the only thing I can comfortably wear besides tennis shoes. And apparently, tennis shoes are out unless you are 80 or a gym teacher.
Then there are my tap shoes.
Why in all Blue Perfect Heaven do I continue to teach tap in my Intro classes?
It hurts to put the the shoes on, it hurts walk in the shoes, it is excruciating to time step in them and after two, nintey minute classes back - to -back I have to pry the things off of my swollen, weeping feet AND ice my inflated knees, because I am 80 and my knees are bad as well as my feet...and my hands, I also have arthritis in my fingers, but that's not today's lesson. I do not use my fingers to tap dance.
None of these things would bother me if I could just show up for school wearing a cute pump and a dark wash, designer jean. I would look fabulous and put together and nobody would know about the arthritis.
Okay, granted, I can Show Up wearing a cute pump and a dark wash designer jean, technically, yes. I just cannot climb out of my FJ and up the dock stairs in any fashion that is timely and does NOT look (and sound) like Yoda.
Hold on hold on...waitwaitwait...
Arthritis gets me Yoda status?
Who needs pumps and denim? Gimme a cane!
I will stand in 146 at lunch and say "How you get so big eating food of this kind?"
Yep. That is what is happening. I'm good.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Postcards
Carrie Fischer wrote a lovely novel called Postcards From The Edge. Occasionally I steal that idea, as well as a phrase used once on Will and Grace "You look like an insane housewife from one of the square states."
Together they create "Postcards From A Square State Mom". Which, for a while, was what I called random email posts. Back when "mom" was what I did with most of my time. Before I added "teacher" to my lengthy hyphenated title. Anyway, it gives me an excuse to write in non sequitors.
As we were driving to our condo yesterday, Jim asked if he was turning on the correct road. I said "Yes, it's by the hospital". Because when you have children and you are staying out of town, you know where the nearest emergency room is.
Lucky for us we have managed to avoid out of town emergency room visits. But driving by the glowing EMERGENCY sign brought back a memory of my own, an "emergency" room at Littleton Porter Adventist Joke Building.
Almost sixteen years ago I blew my MCL and ACL while skiing in Loveland. The girls were babies---Harp was only 4 months old and G was almost two years old. I have never been a skier. I skied because Jim skied and I wanted to spend time with Jim. I was never very good at it, and unlike when I am rollerblading I took my sweet time, toddling along, chatting with the bunnies and enjoying the scenery. Nonetheless, I still managed to snap ligaments right in half. They sound like gunshots when they go off.
I had a lovely schlep down the mountain being toggled along behind a Rescue Skier, bound up like a mummy and annoyed as hell. Also there was pain, my knee hurt.
For some weird reason, when we came back into town the Littleton Porter Joke Hospital was where we went. I think it was because the Real Porter on Downing is such a great hospital and we'd had success there when my appendix e'sploded, we thought these guys would be equally as magnificent and they were right off of C470.
The emergency room was a regular office type waiting room, square and carpeted and quiet. There was a guy before me, and then me. There was no "emergency" in the receptionist's demeanor, and I sat quietly with my leg packed in ice and waited my turn. As Jim and I sat alone (once the guy before went in), a mom and her son came blasting in the doors. She was out of breath, and her son's hand was held high in a bloody towel. I was surprised at first at her Emergency entrance, I had forgotten that I was not in a regular doctor's office. She babbled to the receptionist about her son slamming his finger in a filing cabinet (maybe?) at school. The kid was trying to hold it together but he was in a lot of pain, and he was bleeding in what seemed to me to be an Emergency Type Manner, and the mom was beside herself.
And the receptionist could not be moved out of her current speed of "Who Gives A Crap?"
As it was an emergency room, I couldn't help but be confused by the fact that they made the mom and boy sit down and wait. There was literally nobody in the place but me, and adult with a semi emergency, and it did say "EMERGENCY" clearly on the door. The Hell?
As the mom sat trying to calm her son's crying, Jim and I sat rather dumbfounded at the Utter Lack of Emergency Behavior that was happening.
After what seemed like an eternity, the receptionist came out and called my name and said "You're next."
I looked at Jim and the same thought crossed our eyes "The fuck I am."
I shook my head and pointed at the bleeding boy. "He's first."
The receptionist actually looked annoyed, then shrugged her shoulders.
The mom lost what little control she had left and started weeping. She thanked me as she ushered her shattered son into the back room, where I can only suspect there were doctors. Based on the waiting room I began to wonder if there were just shoemakers back there.
The mom made me feel heroic, which was not okay. She and the boy should have been taken back immediately, without question, without paperwork or discussion or waiting.
I'm just saying. The Hell?
_____________________________________________________________________________
Thursday, October 10, 2013
48
Tonight at 10.10 pm I will be 48 years old.
Every year I receive a large amount of Facebook Happy Birthday posts, and every year I am surprised that anyone remembers my birthday.
And then I remember that Facebook harasses you into remembering birthdays. You are reminded , weeks ahead of time and reminded and reminded and reminded....
So I don't believe it is that so many people remember my birthday as it is that so many people are reminded it's my birthday. I have two friends in Canada who are not on Facebook who remember every year. I find the fact that they remember my birthday without a daily Facebook prompt to be impressive.
I, on the other hand, am terrible about remembering birthdays without Facebook. My dear Canadian friends remember my birthday without fail, and all I can manage is that theirs are both in January. Or maybe one in January and the other in February. I send a card or note Mid January that generally covers Birthday Month(s) Love kryssi The Douchebag. Because I truly cannot remember dates.
I blame my dyslexia, because I am an American and surely this cannot be my fault. Numbers swim and dance and turn on their heads and switch places, it's virtually impossible for me to remember a date of any kind, except the year Shakespeare died because A) it's repetitive and B) it was my address on South Grant Street.
My particular brand of rude is uniquely disrespectful, as I have spent many birthdays depressed and sad that nobody -except my family-remembered it was my birthday.
Make no mistake, I set it up that way. I never actually told people when my birthday was. I thought that was pushy and needy. So I wouldn't give anyone my birthdate but I would then spin out in depression when nobody magically knew it was my birthday. See how I set that up? Genius!
That brilliant ploy was destroyed when I signed up for a Facebook. I didn't realize that they would log my birthday into the Facebook Internet Place In Space and pull it up every year, popping in on my friends and reminding them that if they do not leave a salutation on my wall they are not good friends.
Strangely, I am not opposed to this practice. In the last few years I have discovered that I enjoy having people post Happy Birthday on my wall, or hurling adjectives or even sending a message. It's positively...positive. I am unfamiliar with that notion. But I am slowly becoming accustomed to it .
I also uncovered a deep seeded joy in being reminded of others' birthdays. I like typing "happy happy joy joy" on various walls, and remembering a moment or a phrase that the person and I shared. It's nice.
And I hope that when they post a simple "Happy Birthday" on my wall, the same thing happens for them. They remember a moment, hear my voice in their head or smile at the remembered image of me flopping around on stage or waving my arms or falling on my ass in the mud. 'cause that's a thing that happened. The dog pulled too hard on his leash and it broke. It Was Not Amusing.
I like to say I keep Facebook because it's the only way to retrieve show photos, or to keep in touch with people who are in other states--but NOT other countries because Brad and Dawn refuse to play. But I think I keep it so that once a year, 40 people or so fly by my wall and remember me, and say "hi".
It really is all about me! Who knew?
Every year I receive a large amount of Facebook Happy Birthday posts, and every year I am surprised that anyone remembers my birthday.
And then I remember that Facebook harasses you into remembering birthdays. You are reminded , weeks ahead of time and reminded and reminded and reminded....
So I don't believe it is that so many people remember my birthday as it is that so many people are reminded it's my birthday. I have two friends in Canada who are not on Facebook who remember every year. I find the fact that they remember my birthday without a daily Facebook prompt to be impressive.
I, on the other hand, am terrible about remembering birthdays without Facebook. My dear Canadian friends remember my birthday without fail, and all I can manage is that theirs are both in January. Or maybe one in January and the other in February. I send a card or note Mid January that generally covers Birthday Month(s) Love kryssi The Douchebag. Because I truly cannot remember dates.
I blame my dyslexia, because I am an American and surely this cannot be my fault. Numbers swim and dance and turn on their heads and switch places, it's virtually impossible for me to remember a date of any kind, except the year Shakespeare died because A) it's repetitive and B) it was my address on South Grant Street.
My particular brand of rude is uniquely disrespectful, as I have spent many birthdays depressed and sad that nobody -except my family-remembered it was my birthday.
Make no mistake, I set it up that way. I never actually told people when my birthday was. I thought that was pushy and needy. So I wouldn't give anyone my birthdate but I would then spin out in depression when nobody magically knew it was my birthday. See how I set that up? Genius!
That brilliant ploy was destroyed when I signed up for a Facebook. I didn't realize that they would log my birthday into the Facebook Internet Place In Space and pull it up every year, popping in on my friends and reminding them that if they do not leave a salutation on my wall they are not good friends.
Strangely, I am not opposed to this practice. In the last few years I have discovered that I enjoy having people post Happy Birthday on my wall, or hurling adjectives or even sending a message. It's positively...positive. I am unfamiliar with that notion. But I am slowly becoming accustomed to it .
I also uncovered a deep seeded joy in being reminded of others' birthdays. I like typing "happy happy joy joy" on various walls, and remembering a moment or a phrase that the person and I shared. It's nice.
And I hope that when they post a simple "Happy Birthday" on my wall, the same thing happens for them. They remember a moment, hear my voice in their head or smile at the remembered image of me flopping around on stage or waving my arms or falling on my ass in the mud. 'cause that's a thing that happened. The dog pulled too hard on his leash and it broke. It Was Not Amusing.
I like to say I keep Facebook because it's the only way to retrieve show photos, or to keep in touch with people who are in other states--but NOT other countries because Brad and Dawn refuse to play. But I think I keep it so that once a year, 40 people or so fly by my wall and remember me, and say "hi".
It really is all about me! Who knew?
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Cougar High
Last week, I wore my University of Houston shirt to school.
I do this periodically. Sometimes it's "College Week" at school, and the counselors think the kids enjoy seeing us wear our college gear.
Sometimes it's tech week, and I don't want to wear real clothes.
This was tech week.
There are Things That Happen when I wear my red UH Cougars long sleeved shirt.
One thing that Always Happens is a counselor will pass me and he always says "Cougars, huh?" and raises his eyebrows at me in an upsetting, suggestive manner. No. I am Not A "Cougar", pervo, I work in a high school. I was a Cougar at UH. Stop It. Why do you always do that?
Second, a security guard always tells me that Andre Ware is now an announcer for ESPN or something, "Biggest disappointment in drafting history" he says. I smile and say "Yes, I was there when they called the Astrodome 'The Ware House'. But I was in theatre so I really didn't so much care."
And third, the kids are impressed that I am wearing an out of state college shirt.
What never happens is any sort of warm fuzzy memories of UH.
Until this week.
Without going into the details of my children's health struggles and the stress of teaching 6 classes while directing a show and juggling IB and Thespians and the million other little details of everyone's life, it was a long week.
I wore my UH shirt largely because I felt fat and I don't have anything else that hides my Bingo Arms.
As I sat in rehearsal, using Stanislavski as a last ditch attempt at getting the actors to get past their fears and perform Oscar Wilde, I was hit with a quote from Stephen King.
I hear Stephen King's voice in the moment. In The Body, the story Stand By Me was based on, there is a line: "I never had friends again like I did when I was twelve. Who does?"
Understand I am beyond tired. So the line hits me and I just follow it, because maybe it will lead somewhere, and the moment my actors are on stage stomping and crying, they don't need my attention.
I followed the quote to the University of Houston --1988-1991ish. The Lobby of the Wortham Theatre. I tell the kids I was a theatre major because the theatre was by the parking lot, and the medical school was too far to walk.
While my actors face their fears, I realize I am inadvertently confronting one of mine.
I went to school with some great, talented people. Many of whom came in together and left together. They still talk, they are still connected, they are still friends.
I still speak to exactly two people I went to UH with. I am connected with a few more, but for the most part, Martin and Paul are it, and it's infrequent and facebook based.
Sure sure, older, families, careers, sure.
But that's not it.
They do not remember me.
And I will be damned if that isn't a fear I did not even know I had.
These are people who meant the world to me. Whose talent I worshipped and whose acceptance I craved. A few of them actually relocated to Denver and had no idea I was even here.
Talk about a fear becoming a reality.
These people fed me, literally, because I could afford to spend only $32.00 every two weeks on groceries. Paul paid my Bail Bond and never expected to get it back again (it was with great pride that I paid him back the day before I moved back to Denver). I felt loved, I felt accepted and supported and I belonged.
I belonged.
But I had to leave early. I did not graduate with them. I had to move back to Denver when the money ran out.
And outside of a single magnificent answering machine message they left me during a cast party, in which Edward Albee asked "What is she doing in Denver?" I never really heard from any of them again.
I know a lot of people love college and their roommates and they make friends for life and blah blah blah. But I was NOT a traditional student. I was 21 when I started at UH, I transferred as an English major. I worked a full time job and had a fiancé. I never lived on campus. Yet these guys embraced me, anyway. Only in theatre would a weird fuck up like me be allowed to hang with the lobby rats.
I did not want this to go this way. I did not set out to whine about The Good Old Days or to wrap myself in a memory and refuse to come out.
I have no idea why I started this.
Fear.
Right.
Most people know they will be remembered.
I fear being forgotten.
And when I look back on UH, my fear is confirmed.
All of those beautiful faces, their talent and pain and joy and personalities that I remember, that influenced me, helped mold me, fed me, threw me a going away party...have forgotten who I am.
And Fuck if that does not Suck.
The Stanislavski exercise demands that you face the fear and conquer it, then walk away victorious.
I suppose that is what I intended to do by writing.
Confront. Conquer.
Thank you Paul for keeping me out of jail because I was in Padre instead of going to my court date.
Thank you Deb and Mike and Jason for feeding me when I couldn't feed myself.
Thank you Daria for allowing me into your world and for walking down the beach with me and that damned gorgeous neon bathing suit you wore. And for loaning me the other one with the middle cut out.
Thank you Martin for loving me and being my friend and for making me feel like I had something to contribute to the theatre. And for Padre and hanging on the hammock.
Thank you Chris for being positive, always, no matter what.
Thank you Cyndie for your quiet wisdom and the words "You can go now, what does UH have to offer that you haven't gotten yet?"
Thank you Curtis for being Sam.
Thank you Craig for your gorgeous free spirit and magnificent hair.
Thank you John (My god, how embarrassing, I think your name was John) you were a friend of Cyndie's and always so fucking kind and supportive of everyone, always, and I'm a dick for being unsure of your name.
Thank you B. Dalton Wes, David, Diane, Larry--you guys provided sanity and balance and never, ever called me on being a dick even if I was a dick.
Thank you Aunt Polly (RIP) for letting me live in your house when Jim moved back to Denver.
Thank you Nellie for allowing me to live in your crazy ass warehouse bay when I moved out of Polly's.
Thank you Joel Orr for sitting in a lawn chair inside of CSAW and telling me I was a beautiful juxtaposition in the artist warehouse whilst slurping your disgusting green liquid.,
Lauren the playwright, Rene the mime, Beth who go-go danced on the weekends despite her feminist agenda, My fellow Numb Nut Twin (we couldn't build a window flat by ourselves) Andrea who bartended and whose smile I still see to this day...all of you. ALL OF YOU.
You may not remember me, but I will never, ever, forget you. Everyone who ever gave me a ride (Paul's roommate who drove a mail truck), bought me food for my birthday, allowed me to remain employed, cast me, shared a drink or a moment or a stage or a sewing machine.
I never had friends again like I did when I was at UH.
YOU will not be forgotten.
So knock that right off of your fear list.
I do this periodically. Sometimes it's "College Week" at school, and the counselors think the kids enjoy seeing us wear our college gear.
Sometimes it's tech week, and I don't want to wear real clothes.
This was tech week.
There are Things That Happen when I wear my red UH Cougars long sleeved shirt.
One thing that Always Happens is a counselor will pass me and he always says "Cougars, huh?" and raises his eyebrows at me in an upsetting, suggestive manner. No. I am Not A "Cougar", pervo, I work in a high school. I was a Cougar at UH. Stop It. Why do you always do that?
Second, a security guard always tells me that Andre Ware is now an announcer for ESPN or something, "Biggest disappointment in drafting history" he says. I smile and say "Yes, I was there when they called the Astrodome 'The Ware House'. But I was in theatre so I really didn't so much care."
And third, the kids are impressed that I am wearing an out of state college shirt.
What never happens is any sort of warm fuzzy memories of UH.
Until this week.
Without going into the details of my children's health struggles and the stress of teaching 6 classes while directing a show and juggling IB and Thespians and the million other little details of everyone's life, it was a long week.
I wore my UH shirt largely because I felt fat and I don't have anything else that hides my Bingo Arms.
As I sat in rehearsal, using Stanislavski as a last ditch attempt at getting the actors to get past their fears and perform Oscar Wilde, I was hit with a quote from Stephen King.
I hear Stephen King's voice in the moment. In The Body, the story Stand By Me was based on, there is a line: "I never had friends again like I did when I was twelve. Who does?"
Understand I am beyond tired. So the line hits me and I just follow it, because maybe it will lead somewhere, and the moment my actors are on stage stomping and crying, they don't need my attention.
I followed the quote to the University of Houston --1988-1991ish. The Lobby of the Wortham Theatre. I tell the kids I was a theatre major because the theatre was by the parking lot, and the medical school was too far to walk.
While my actors face their fears, I realize I am inadvertently confronting one of mine.
I went to school with some great, talented people. Many of whom came in together and left together. They still talk, they are still connected, they are still friends.
I still speak to exactly two people I went to UH with. I am connected with a few more, but for the most part, Martin and Paul are it, and it's infrequent and facebook based.
Sure sure, older, families, careers, sure.
But that's not it.
They do not remember me.
And I will be damned if that isn't a fear I did not even know I had.
These are people who meant the world to me. Whose talent I worshipped and whose acceptance I craved. A few of them actually relocated to Denver and had no idea I was even here.
Talk about a fear becoming a reality.
These people fed me, literally, because I could afford to spend only $32.00 every two weeks on groceries. Paul paid my Bail Bond and never expected to get it back again (it was with great pride that I paid him back the day before I moved back to Denver). I felt loved, I felt accepted and supported and I belonged.
I belonged.
But I had to leave early. I did not graduate with them. I had to move back to Denver when the money ran out.
And outside of a single magnificent answering machine message they left me during a cast party, in which Edward Albee asked "What is she doing in Denver?" I never really heard from any of them again.
I know a lot of people love college and their roommates and they make friends for life and blah blah blah. But I was NOT a traditional student. I was 21 when I started at UH, I transferred as an English major. I worked a full time job and had a fiancé. I never lived on campus. Yet these guys embraced me, anyway. Only in theatre would a weird fuck up like me be allowed to hang with the lobby rats.
I did not want this to go this way. I did not set out to whine about The Good Old Days or to wrap myself in a memory and refuse to come out.
I have no idea why I started this.
Fear.
Right.
Most people know they will be remembered.
I fear being forgotten.
And when I look back on UH, my fear is confirmed.
All of those beautiful faces, their talent and pain and joy and personalities that I remember, that influenced me, helped mold me, fed me, threw me a going away party...have forgotten who I am.
And Fuck if that does not Suck.
The Stanislavski exercise demands that you face the fear and conquer it, then walk away victorious.
I suppose that is what I intended to do by writing.
Confront. Conquer.
Thank you Paul for keeping me out of jail because I was in Padre instead of going to my court date.
Thank you Deb and Mike and Jason for feeding me when I couldn't feed myself.
Thank you Daria for allowing me into your world and for walking down the beach with me and that damned gorgeous neon bathing suit you wore. And for loaning me the other one with the middle cut out.
Thank you Martin for loving me and being my friend and for making me feel like I had something to contribute to the theatre. And for Padre and hanging on the hammock.
Thank you Chris for being positive, always, no matter what.
Thank you Cyndie for your quiet wisdom and the words "You can go now, what does UH have to offer that you haven't gotten yet?"
Thank you Curtis for being Sam.
Thank you Craig for your gorgeous free spirit and magnificent hair.
Thank you John (My god, how embarrassing, I think your name was John) you were a friend of Cyndie's and always so fucking kind and supportive of everyone, always, and I'm a dick for being unsure of your name.
Thank you B. Dalton Wes, David, Diane, Larry--you guys provided sanity and balance and never, ever called me on being a dick even if I was a dick.
Thank you Aunt Polly (RIP) for letting me live in your house when Jim moved back to Denver.
Thank you Nellie for allowing me to live in your crazy ass warehouse bay when I moved out of Polly's.
Thank you Joel Orr for sitting in a lawn chair inside of CSAW and telling me I was a beautiful juxtaposition in the artist warehouse whilst slurping your disgusting green liquid.,
Lauren the playwright, Rene the mime, Beth who go-go danced on the weekends despite her feminist agenda, My fellow Numb Nut Twin (we couldn't build a window flat by ourselves) Andrea who bartended and whose smile I still see to this day...all of you. ALL OF YOU.
You may not remember me, but I will never, ever, forget you. Everyone who ever gave me a ride (Paul's roommate who drove a mail truck), bought me food for my birthday, allowed me to remain employed, cast me, shared a drink or a moment or a stage or a sewing machine.
I never had friends again like I did when I was at UH.
YOU will not be forgotten.
So knock that right off of your fear list.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Aaaaaaaaannnnnnnnd we're back!
9.16 PM Friday, 23 August. The evening of the last day of the first week of school.
Holy crap that was a long week.
Summer was short. It was way too short. I was not ready to come back.
But I did, and within the first week: A parent complained about a suggested (I would like to point out it was a SUGGESTED) movie for actors to watch because they are actors who should watch other actors -warranting a MEETING, another parent scheduled a meeting for BLAH BLAH BLAH privacy BLAH, I had a MEETING to explain How Auditions Work and By The Way Auditions Are Monday, and I actually taught Oedipus for the first time. Usually I say "read the play" and we then spend time on stage learning about Greek performance and doing funny dithyrambs and, sometimes, I make them write their own Greek piece in iambic hex (which is pretty hilarious), but I actually stood in front of the class with chalk and danced around drawing tripods and explaining Apollo and the Oracle and By The Way Oedipus' children are also his sisters and THAT doesn't upset parents but suggesting current movies DOES?
I am so happy to be watching Drunk History and drinking my wine right now.
Keep in mind this is wine and Drunk History AFTER I spent two hours at the Ironworks with Jim.
Who is, by the way, being very patient with me and my crazy.
Remember at the end of last year (because you have been following my blog diligently) when I was like "Imma make rules, kids suck and stuff."
So I did.
I tightened up access to the classroom and my office, killed Improv club and ...it's very, very quiet in my world now.
Who knew?
I have invited kids in the morning, they still have cubbies and lockers and a fridge and such. But man lunches are AWESOME quiet, and nobody messes around during their off hour.
I get why Kron never let them in except for class.
And I kinda miss them a bit, but not much. The current seniors who hang out are really delightful people, I never had issue with them in the first place. And they responded beautifully to the new rules with no whining, no bitching and no trying to find cracks in the foundation.
But still, I'm so tired! My entire house is not sleeping. Is anyone else having this issue? It's like we sleep but we aren't rested.
It bites.
So even though the new rules seem to be working, and I seem to be teaching instead of bitching at A**holes for breaking my computer or interrupting my class, it was still a very long week.
Sigh.
We'll see how next week goes.
Holy crap that was a long week.
Summer was short. It was way too short. I was not ready to come back.
But I did, and within the first week: A parent complained about a suggested (I would like to point out it was a SUGGESTED) movie for actors to watch because they are actors who should watch other actors -warranting a MEETING, another parent scheduled a meeting for BLAH BLAH BLAH privacy BLAH, I had a MEETING to explain How Auditions Work and By The Way Auditions Are Monday, and I actually taught Oedipus for the first time. Usually I say "read the play" and we then spend time on stage learning about Greek performance and doing funny dithyrambs and, sometimes, I make them write their own Greek piece in iambic hex (which is pretty hilarious), but I actually stood in front of the class with chalk and danced around drawing tripods and explaining Apollo and the Oracle and By The Way Oedipus' children are also his sisters and THAT doesn't upset parents but suggesting current movies DOES?
I am so happy to be watching Drunk History and drinking my wine right now.
Keep in mind this is wine and Drunk History AFTER I spent two hours at the Ironworks with Jim.
Who is, by the way, being very patient with me and my crazy.
Remember at the end of last year (because you have been following my blog diligently) when I was like "Imma make rules, kids suck and stuff."
So I did.
I tightened up access to the classroom and my office, killed Improv club and ...it's very, very quiet in my world now.
Who knew?
I have invited kids in the morning, they still have cubbies and lockers and a fridge and such. But man lunches are AWESOME quiet, and nobody messes around during their off hour.
I get why Kron never let them in except for class.
And I kinda miss them a bit, but not much. The current seniors who hang out are really delightful people, I never had issue with them in the first place. And they responded beautifully to the new rules with no whining, no bitching and no trying to find cracks in the foundation.
But still, I'm so tired! My entire house is not sleeping. Is anyone else having this issue? It's like we sleep but we aren't rested.
It bites.
So even though the new rules seem to be working, and I seem to be teaching instead of bitching at A**holes for breaking my computer or interrupting my class, it was still a very long week.
Sigh.
We'll see how next week goes.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Which of These Things Do Not Belong Together? kryssi and Boettcher. Scene.
See, the Boettcher Scholarship is given to 40 kids statewide every year. They receive a full ride to all 4 years at a Colorado school.
I was not in the running for a Boettcher in 1984 when I barely graduated from GMHS.
Frankly, I'm not even sure I knew what "The Boettcher" was outside of a concert hall and a very rich Colorado family.
Each student then is asked to choose one of their teachers to receive a $1000.00 grant for their department.
I'm going into my 10th year at LHS, and I recall 3 Boettcher scholars in that time. I have no doubt there were others, but I didn't know them.
Last year's scholar told me about the grant money, and which teacher he was giving it to-math, of course- which was the first I'd heard of it. I said "You get to do what?" How rich are these people?
Answer: So Freaking Rich.
In 1984 when I graduated, we had some freaking stellar teachers at GMHS. It was the perfect storm. The Starkeys ruled Lang Arts, Bud ran the theatre like a mini-conservatory, Steve Meinenger was Da Bomb in music, and I heard Shibley (what was his first name?) the band teacher was a real jazz musician, which was to either explain or excuse his apparent daily hangovers.
And there was Peter Melbach: History.
Sometimes called "Peter Von Melbach" or "Fucking Melbach" or just "Melbach".
My freshman year I got a "C" in his class. I learned more from him than any other history teacher, ever, and regardless of the grade I signed up for his class again sophomore year. Fall semester I got an "F". I left my WWI map at a school in Salida while on tour with concert choir. When I returned, crying, beggging for just ONE extra day to redo the map, I was coldly told "No. It was due today" by Melbach.
Later, after having class with him as much as I could, I came into his classroom with Shadows to sing to some kid in his class. He grabbed me by the door and said "You have more talent in your little finger than most of this school. Don't waste it."
I was terrified and kept thinking it was an insult.
Forward twenty years. I was a waitress at My Brothers Bar in Denver, which turns out to be Peter Melbach's favorite watering hole. Every time I would see him, he would ask about what I was doing ("Some show here, film over there, shot a commercial, blah blah blah") and he would say "Why aren't you teaching?" and I would say "Because you are. I'm not needed."
Then one night I said "I am thinking about it. Maybe subbing first?" and he lit up like I'd never seen and just said "Yes."
And the rest, as they say, is history...
But then...
The LHS Boettcher scholar this year was a theatre kid. And he chose me to receive the grant money.
So I got to go to the fancy shmancy Boettcher ceremony at the Botanic Gardens.
It rained, there was an accident and we were late, but we made it. "We" meaning Jim and I because I Got To Bring A Date!
As I sat next to Ryan (the Boettcher Scholar, the kid who did all the work and who should get all the credit) watching the teacher/student parade and awaiting our moment, I saw Peter Melbach, heard his name announced and watched him accept a plaque.
I gasped and looked at Jim "No way!"
This is where I tell you my loving and supportive husband said "It's like if Spicoli was at the same awards as Mr. Hand." Yes, yes it is, and enjoy the couch tonight, dear.
Funny, but wrong.
I looked at the program and Peter Melbach has a denotation by his name indicating he is a "multiple recipient" of the Boettcher money.
Of course he is.
So when Ryan and I lined up to await our turn, I saw Peter in the front row and I started waving at him like a three year old at her dad on the merry go round.
Seriously, you cannot take me anywhere. I have no doubt Ryan was humiliated and was wishing he'd chosen a grown up for the award money.
Also, I cannot be around my high school teachers. When Bud comes to shows I am inconsolable. I still want nothing more than for Kathy Starkey to think I'm smart. Steve Meinenger got flipped off when he asked if I was supposed to be using the printer in the band office---this was three years ago. I was 44 years old.
Poor Melbach must have thought I was "special"or had suffered a brain injury.
Once we were released to the alcohol and food tables---wait, a moment should be taken to compliment the Boettcher's ability to know how to make high school teachers happy: free booze, free food and an invitation to wander around Denver Botanic Gardens for free. These guys get it.
I got my red wine and made a beeline for Peter. I have no doubt anybody watching saw a crazy stalker.
Once in front of him, I realized I had nothing to say. I mean...he's Peter Fucking Melbach, Five Time Boettcher recipient and Rock Star IB History Teacher. I'm Schleppy The Clown. The last time we spoke I asked him if he wanted another beer.
So I said "Can we get a photo to prove you and I are at the same awards?" He was gracious and kind and said of course.
His prinicpal offered to take the photo and I was out of conversation starters when Peter said "Congratulations."
"Thanks. Wow. You too. How may is this?"
He shrugged. "Five."
I downed half my glass of wine.
He indicated my glass "Where'd you get that?"
AH! YES! Booze! A way in!
"Over there, I'll walk with you."
He stopped first and looked at me. The man has the most intense, intelligent eyes. I thought how much they look like Kathy Starkey's eyes and how I hope he doesn't see nothing at all in mine.
He said "You are a great teacher."
I shook my head. "Dude, you have no idea."
He stood firm. "Yes I do. I know. I knew it in high school.Congrats."
Inside I was screaming and dancing and barfing and outside I held it together THANK YOU YEARS OF ACTING TEACHERS and said "Thanks. Seriously." And we walked together toward the booze and he called me kryssi and told me he was retiring and wants to write an historical fiction novel and see "what else is out there" after 38 years of teaching.
Like we were colleagues or something. Not like we were Peter Fucking Melbach and Schleppy
The Clown.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Bucket Listing
2 August, 2013,
Summer is over.
The slant of light has changed, the air is sweeter and the nights are cooling off. Now when I wake up I feel like it's time to get ready for school, not stay in bed and sleep until noon.
This summer screamed by.
It could be that I Accomplished A Thing by cleaning up the bathroom.
It could be that Jim and I consciously started looking for things to do without the kids so that next year, when Genoa goes to college, we're not complete strangers.
It could be that Genoa had an internship, the Betty Buckley workshop, a job.
It could be that Harper had a babysitting job two days a week, occasionally split with her sister, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner almost every night.
These things combined with G having a car means the girls are doing their own thing instead of looking at me whining "Entertain Us" for the first time.
It could be the lovely trip to Durango, our Saturday Ironworks dates, finishing design and crew manuals, actively looking for things to do, Jim's bucket list....
Jim's Bucket List.
Mt. Bierstedt
Jim has decided he needs to bucket list. Yes, I verbed a noun, move on. I was not aware of this until he got all flavors of geeked out goofy over going to Mesa Verde. He pulled up maps and photos, trails and bought tickets to the two tour houses, regardless of his knees or weight, by god he was going. It was very cute. Finally he admitted "I've always wanted to do this!"
I personally think 50 is a silly age to bucket list, but he didn't ask me.
"Climb a Fourteener" is on his list.
Well, any normal summer any other year I'd say "Have fun" and stay home with a cocktail and Drunk History. But this weird summer I said sure, I'll go up with you.
Knowing I have cadaver ligaments in my knee, held together with fifteen year old screws, which have recently begun to grind like broken glass, I still said "sure, I'll go too" in the spirit of Let's Do Things Together.
Jim almost made it to the summit. To his credit he trudged upward with impressive determination. He turned back only when black clouds began to roll in. Being struck by lightning while achieving a Bucket List item was not on his Bucket List.
I, on the other hand, turned back much sooner. About an hour into the hike, to be exact. There is a ridge of rock facings that are, in places, a foot apart. It's a strain to climb, my knee did not love it, but that was not my issue. My issue was looking straight up and thinking "there is no way I'm coming back down". Grinding knees have a tendancy, under duress, to give out. So I turned back. As I interviewed many people at the base who were returning from the summit, I learned that I had made the right choice, that it gets worse with a trail of bolders further up. Which are not an issue if you A) have working knees or are B) a mountain goat.
We miscalculated the time as well. People we asked who had climbed seem to think it was a two hour up, two hour down venture. A few at the base that I interveiwed said the same. So when Jim did not return by 1pm I began to get jumpy.
I learned later in my interviews that that climb up is two hours if you are A) twenty years old and in good shape or B) a mountain goat. The people returning did not meet either of those requirements and said it was definitely a six hour round trip, particularly when you get to the top and hang out for a bit. This was confirmed by a Ranger I talked to, who shook his head and said "This always happens, it is not short and it is not 'easy'."
So as I waited for four hours at the base, walking from the truck to the trail head to the bathroom to the truck to the trailhead, down the trail to the lake, back up, sit on the wood railing, look at the map, back to the truck, to the bathroom, to the trail head, down to the lake...and chatted with those returning about how long it had taken them and, by the way, did you see a guy who looked like my husband...I made my own list.
Or at least I started one.
At 47 I do not feel the need for a Bucket List. I may never feel a need for such a thing because I really don't want to do anything but theatre and drink and watch TV. I have already accomplished these things, I'm good.
So I, instead, have a Things I Have No Desire To Do, Ever list.
At present it has only three items:
#1 Hike a fourteener.
#2 Swim with sharks.
#3 See CATS.
Summer is over.
The slant of light has changed, the air is sweeter and the nights are cooling off. Now when I wake up I feel like it's time to get ready for school, not stay in bed and sleep until noon.
This summer screamed by.
It could be that I Accomplished A Thing by cleaning up the bathroom.
It could be that Jim and I consciously started looking for things to do without the kids so that next year, when Genoa goes to college, we're not complete strangers.
It could be that Genoa had an internship, the Betty Buckley workshop, a job.
It could be that Harper had a babysitting job two days a week, occasionally split with her sister, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner almost every night.
These things combined with G having a car means the girls are doing their own thing instead of looking at me whining "Entertain Us" for the first time.
It could be the lovely trip to Durango, our Saturday Ironworks dates, finishing design and crew manuals, actively looking for things to do, Jim's bucket list....
Jim's Bucket List.
Mt. Bierstedt
Jim has decided he needs to bucket list. Yes, I verbed a noun, move on. I was not aware of this until he got all flavors of geeked out goofy over going to Mesa Verde. He pulled up maps and photos, trails and bought tickets to the two tour houses, regardless of his knees or weight, by god he was going. It was very cute. Finally he admitted "I've always wanted to do this!"
I personally think 50 is a silly age to bucket list, but he didn't ask me.
"Climb a Fourteener" is on his list.
Well, any normal summer any other year I'd say "Have fun" and stay home with a cocktail and Drunk History. But this weird summer I said sure, I'll go up with you.
Knowing I have cadaver ligaments in my knee, held together with fifteen year old screws, which have recently begun to grind like broken glass, I still said "sure, I'll go too" in the spirit of Let's Do Things Together.
Jim almost made it to the summit. To his credit he trudged upward with impressive determination. He turned back only when black clouds began to roll in. Being struck by lightning while achieving a Bucket List item was not on his Bucket List.
I, on the other hand, turned back much sooner. About an hour into the hike, to be exact. There is a ridge of rock facings that are, in places, a foot apart. It's a strain to climb, my knee did not love it, but that was not my issue. My issue was looking straight up and thinking "there is no way I'm coming back down". Grinding knees have a tendancy, under duress, to give out. So I turned back. As I interviewed many people at the base who were returning from the summit, I learned that I had made the right choice, that it gets worse with a trail of bolders further up. Which are not an issue if you A) have working knees or are B) a mountain goat.
We miscalculated the time as well. People we asked who had climbed seem to think it was a two hour up, two hour down venture. A few at the base that I interveiwed said the same. So when Jim did not return by 1pm I began to get jumpy.
I learned later in my interviews that that climb up is two hours if you are A) twenty years old and in good shape or B) a mountain goat. The people returning did not meet either of those requirements and said it was definitely a six hour round trip, particularly when you get to the top and hang out for a bit. This was confirmed by a Ranger I talked to, who shook his head and said "This always happens, it is not short and it is not 'easy'."
So as I waited for four hours at the base, walking from the truck to the trail head to the bathroom to the truck to the trailhead, down the trail to the lake, back up, sit on the wood railing, look at the map, back to the truck, to the bathroom, to the trail head, down to the lake...and chatted with those returning about how long it had taken them and, by the way, did you see a guy who looked like my husband...I made my own list.
Or at least I started one.
At 47 I do not feel the need for a Bucket List. I may never feel a need for such a thing because I really don't want to do anything but theatre and drink and watch TV. I have already accomplished these things, I'm good.
So I, instead, have a Things I Have No Desire To Do, Ever list.
At present it has only three items:
#1 Hike a fourteener.
#2 Swim with sharks.
#3 See CATS.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
A Home Improvement Post For Your Entertainment
So after a week of getting insurance quotes, I made no insurance decisions and instead decided it was time to fix the bathroom.
Lemme 'splain "fix". We've lived here 12 years and the bathroom has not been touched other than to rip out a strip of wallpaper and put up dinosaur stencils. (seen below. With a hunter green background, the dinos were pink-ish). This is how I "design".
I had grand plans for this tiny little bathroom, but as the girls grew up and Genoa became a whirling dirvish, I gave up. There is makeup smeared everywhere. The wallpaper is half heartedly peeled off in places, the tile is cracked, there is a hole in the door where G or H kicked it when they were fighting. And the piece de resistance: Harper poured KILLS down the sink drain. I told her to empty the last of the paint, it was my fault, clearly.
Since I pledged to Do A Thing this summer, I decided on the bathroom.
It's not a full rip out, we can't afford to do that quite yet. I just wanted to get it to a point where guests could use it and not exit filthier than when they entered.
Step One was to convince Genoa I was going to paint over the dinos. Harper was ready for it, she couldn't wait. But G gets weirdly attached to things. So I promised to take a picture and then frame the picture and put it in the bathroom.
Step Two was to peel the hideous wallpaper.
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Once it came down, I had to texture. That's fun in an unventilated space. Yes. Then I was ready to paint. But I had decided on light green with black door frames and maybe paint the cabinets black. Harper did not agree. So we looked at small bathrooms on pinrest and she found polka dots. Black and white polkda dots. Which work in the sink part of the bathroom, but the tile by the bathtub has pink and green in it. So we'll polka dot that room with green.
But now it's black and white.
Lemme 'splain "fix". We've lived here 12 years and the bathroom has not been touched other than to rip out a strip of wallpaper and put up dinosaur stencils. (seen below. With a hunter green background, the dinos were pink-ish). This is how I "design".
I had grand plans for this tiny little bathroom, but as the girls grew up and Genoa became a whirling dirvish, I gave up. There is makeup smeared everywhere. The wallpaper is half heartedly peeled off in places, the tile is cracked, there is a hole in the door where G or H kicked it when they were fighting. And the piece de resistance: Harper poured KILLS down the sink drain. I told her to empty the last of the paint, it was my fault, clearly.
Since I pledged to Do A Thing this summer, I decided on the bathroom.
It's not a full rip out, we can't afford to do that quite yet. I just wanted to get it to a point where guests could use it and not exit filthier than when they entered.
Step One was to convince Genoa I was going to paint over the dinos. Harper was ready for it, she couldn't wait. But G gets weirdly attached to things. So I promised to take a picture and then frame the picture and put it in the bathroom.
Step Two was to peel the hideous wallpaper.
.jpg)
But now it's black and white.
It's better than it was. Did those edges, eh?
But now I have to get new switchplates, a vent, figure out what to do with the mirrors and paint polka dots.
Which means design. (ERIC PUNG STOP LAUGHING)
Which means someone else has to finish this.
I "design" like I "cook". It's basic, it is functional and it won't kill you.
But nobody is going to enjoy the experience.
I saw this great thing on pinrest -a How To tile around your mirrors. It's really awesome, but...I can't do it. It won't matter how basic it is, I will make it look ghetto. I promise. It is my gift, it is my curse.
But I also can't stop here, it's clean and functional but so bland.
My girls inherited by design incapabilities, so no help there.
I was thinking I'll bag the polka dots and tile and just hang pictures and plants and put scarves around the mirrors...(STOP LAUGHING KAYLEN HIGGINS)
Sigh.
No talent for design is like a birth defect. It's really frustrating. I once painted the hallway Bronco orange, unaware that it was Bronco orange.
As I was painting and thinking about the mirrors (whyOHWHY did they love unframed mirrors in the seventies?) I was like "I could do ribbon or fabric, fabric one tile the other...just frame them out.."and every time I would have to stop myself by screaming "STOP TRYING TO DESIGN! Just paint the damned walls."
So I did.
Anyway. I did a thing!
And while I did I wrote the greatest blogs in my head!
I have many things to say about the president, Florida, racism,profiling, aging labradors, abortion,insurace companies, college tuition, and the heat.
And all of these things were passionate in my head as I stripped and painted in a tiny, unventilated bathroom for four days.
Then I went outside and none of it mattered. There was air outside.
I did a thing!
Monday, July 15, 2013
Of Purges and Pondering
I'll keep the exposition short so we can get right to the babbling.
Four years of Jim being largely unemployed or underemployed + kryssi being a public school teacher (meaning no raise, ever again as long as I live) = the Martin house is sagging.
Which is better than having lost it altogether. Let us keep perspective. We still have our house and our two cars.
The last four to five years have sucked for just about everyone.
The financial shitstorm also means no vacation. No money to try and keep the house up.
And No Will To Do Anything.
I pulled up just short of hanging out on my porch wearing a wife beater and nursing a can of Coors Light. Manic Depressives do not exactly excel under the above circumstances.
So this year Jim got a job. A real job, a place to go and be productive at a place he likes and they pay him, on time. Underpaid a bit but we are trying not to complain. And even though a real vacation is still not possible, we did at least get to schlep around Durango for a few days.
So I started purging the house. As a bit of a karma, feng shui geek, I am aware that all of the crap of the last four years is lurking in bedroom corners, stuck in 30 year old wallpaper and poised to strike when I open any closet.
I decided that enough was enough, and spent June winding down, doing a few things for school and kept to light cleaning, waiting for July so I could attack.
July hit and so did the purge. My bedroom has not been this clean since we moved in.
And while finances prevent anything huge from happening, I have managed to switch out curtain rods, put up new curtains, throw out a dresser, gut and reorganize a closet and scrape off the 150 year old wallpaper from the girls' bathroom and get a start on a new coat of paint.
This is not even a third of what needs to be done, but once I started Harper and Genoa had a babysitting job literally walk up to our front door and Genoa got a job at Kohl's.
These things are related. If you dig out the crap you can allow the good stuff to emerge.
I've known this for years, but I can be stubborn.
And all this cleaning has freed up my mind a bit. Which is a nice change, I've been pretty wound up and cranky. Serious mental constipation. I just kept pushing to the next thing, thinking "I just have to get through this" and then it was on to the next thing.
It had become increasingly difficult to pretend I was A) emotionally stable and B) not angry at the word. And as I was scraping the wallpaper today I realized that I am happier when I am emotionally unstable and angry. It is who I am. What was throwing me off and making me CRANKY was PRETENDING I am someone I am not because I was trying so hard to cover up what was going on. So I was pissed, but not for the right reasons!
What a glorious revelation!
I can now go back to actually being a cold hearted bitch instead of just saying it.
FREEDOM!
I had become this horrifying, passive aggressive, psuedo-accepting, nagging blob. So Gross. I was literally wandering around my classroom mumbling to myself by the end of the year about how much I hate these assholes.
And now I feel I can fly the 'hawk at full mast and do what it is I love to do, the way it needs to be done, full speed ahead, take no prisoners, too bad so sad.
So the next time some disrespectful student breaks my laptop, I won't just shrug and go cry in my office. I will scream at them, pack the broken laptop in their backpack and call home to explain to his parents that he will be bringing home a broken laptop and that I expect a new laptop to be returned to me.
I just had to sit down and share this. I am too old to try to be someone I'm not, what the hell? No more mumbling. If you are an asshole they I am going to openly call you an asshole.
Your self esteem is not my problem.
Anyone else hear the Dead Kennedys playing in the background?
YES. All right, I'm going back into the bathroom to finish the other half of the wallpaper. It is very hot in there with no airflow. Can you tell?
Four years of Jim being largely unemployed or underemployed + kryssi being a public school teacher (meaning no raise, ever again as long as I live) = the Martin house is sagging.
Which is better than having lost it altogether. Let us keep perspective. We still have our house and our two cars.
The last four to five years have sucked for just about everyone.
The financial shitstorm also means no vacation. No money to try and keep the house up.
And No Will To Do Anything.
I pulled up just short of hanging out on my porch wearing a wife beater and nursing a can of Coors Light. Manic Depressives do not exactly excel under the above circumstances.
So this year Jim got a job. A real job, a place to go and be productive at a place he likes and they pay him, on time. Underpaid a bit but we are trying not to complain. And even though a real vacation is still not possible, we did at least get to schlep around Durango for a few days.
So I started purging the house. As a bit of a karma, feng shui geek, I am aware that all of the crap of the last four years is lurking in bedroom corners, stuck in 30 year old wallpaper and poised to strike when I open any closet.
I decided that enough was enough, and spent June winding down, doing a few things for school and kept to light cleaning, waiting for July so I could attack.
July hit and so did the purge. My bedroom has not been this clean since we moved in.
And while finances prevent anything huge from happening, I have managed to switch out curtain rods, put up new curtains, throw out a dresser, gut and reorganize a closet and scrape off the 150 year old wallpaper from the girls' bathroom and get a start on a new coat of paint.
This is not even a third of what needs to be done, but once I started Harper and Genoa had a babysitting job literally walk up to our front door and Genoa got a job at Kohl's.
These things are related. If you dig out the crap you can allow the good stuff to emerge.
I've known this for years, but I can be stubborn.
And all this cleaning has freed up my mind a bit. Which is a nice change, I've been pretty wound up and cranky. Serious mental constipation. I just kept pushing to the next thing, thinking "I just have to get through this" and then it was on to the next thing.
It had become increasingly difficult to pretend I was A) emotionally stable and B) not angry at the word. And as I was scraping the wallpaper today I realized that I am happier when I am emotionally unstable and angry. It is who I am. What was throwing me off and making me CRANKY was PRETENDING I am someone I am not because I was trying so hard to cover up what was going on. So I was pissed, but not for the right reasons!
What a glorious revelation!
I can now go back to actually being a cold hearted bitch instead of just saying it.
FREEDOM!
I had become this horrifying, passive aggressive, psuedo-accepting, nagging blob. So Gross. I was literally wandering around my classroom mumbling to myself by the end of the year about how much I hate these assholes.
And now I feel I can fly the 'hawk at full mast and do what it is I love to do, the way it needs to be done, full speed ahead, take no prisoners, too bad so sad.
So the next time some disrespectful student breaks my laptop, I won't just shrug and go cry in my office. I will scream at them, pack the broken laptop in their backpack and call home to explain to his parents that he will be bringing home a broken laptop and that I expect a new laptop to be returned to me.
I just had to sit down and share this. I am too old to try to be someone I'm not, what the hell? No more mumbling. If you are an asshole they I am going to openly call you an asshole.
Your self esteem is not my problem.
Anyone else hear the Dead Kennedys playing in the background?
YES. All right, I'm going back into the bathroom to finish the other half of the wallpaper. It is very hot in there with no airflow. Can you tell?
Friday, June 28, 2013
Simms and 6th
So, the girls wanted to go to the Butterfly Pavilion today. Sometimes that's the day we have, they wish to revisit places they haunted when they were smaller. In addition to the Pavilion there is the Museum of Nature and Science, The Aquarium and Stinky Beach (whose Christian name is Bear Creek Lake Park). After the Pavilion it was off to Bonnie Brae for lunch. Genoa will ask by saying "What is the place you guys went to when you decided my name?" She knows it's Bonnie Brae, but it's more fun to invoke the connection to her arrival on the planet.
On the way home, we were at the onramp at Simms and 6th Ave. There was a young man on the left hand side, a lane over from where we were. To me he looked 17, his eyes were wild and he was dressed like he was going to a job interview. His face was distraught, and as we passed I realized he was crying. There was desperation coming off of the poor boy in waves. The flow of traffic prohibited me from slowing, and I was too far over to have done anything, anyway. But all three of us fell silent, and Genoa popped up from the backseat and said "Oh, Honey. If I had my car I would stop and take him to Denny's and buy him food and ask him to talk to me."
We continued home, in silence, Genoa's eyes wild. When we pulled into the driveway, I turned to her and said "Here's $20.00. I know you want to go back. Don't let him in the car, you don't know the situation is and you really can't trust anybody. But if he'll walk across the street you can meet him at Denny's. Call me when you get there."
She jumped into her car and took off.
She texted and called me, also called her sister, and when she got home I got the full story.
She had to circle three times to talk to him, people kept honking and he wouldn't go to Denny's because someone was picking him up in a few minutes.
He is 19 years old, just got out of culinary school. His parents threw him out when they found out he got a girl pregnant. He has a one and half year old son. His girlfriend left him recently, and he's out of money. He has a job that starts in 3 weeks. A friend of his girlfriend is watching the baby so he can stand on the corner, something he just started within the last day or two , and on the weekend he applies for jobs. The friend is also helping him keep the apartment as well as acting as nanny. He cried the whole time she talked to him, insisting that he's not a bad person. He was hanging on until about a week ago and he just has to make it three weeks until the job starts.
Genoa is one of two people who stopped, and the other one gave him change from his cupholder. He had several people yell names at him, and one actually threw something at him and called him a loser. He thanked Genoa profusely for the $20 and she said she'd go get him some groceries and bring them back, but he said his friend was returning soon.
He insisted on hugging her, causing the guy behind her to honk and flip her off because the light had turned green.
How's that for a sad and profound snapshot of our society?
...and make no mistake, I'm crazy proud. She comes by this behavior honestly.
On the way home, we were at the onramp at Simms and 6th Ave. There was a young man on the left hand side, a lane over from where we were. To me he looked 17, his eyes were wild and he was dressed like he was going to a job interview. His face was distraught, and as we passed I realized he was crying. There was desperation coming off of the poor boy in waves. The flow of traffic prohibited me from slowing, and I was too far over to have done anything, anyway. But all three of us fell silent, and Genoa popped up from the backseat and said "Oh, Honey. If I had my car I would stop and take him to Denny's and buy him food and ask him to talk to me."
We continued home, in silence, Genoa's eyes wild. When we pulled into the driveway, I turned to her and said "Here's $20.00. I know you want to go back. Don't let him in the car, you don't know the situation is and you really can't trust anybody. But if he'll walk across the street you can meet him at Denny's. Call me when you get there."
She jumped into her car and took off.
She texted and called me, also called her sister, and when she got home I got the full story.
She had to circle three times to talk to him, people kept honking and he wouldn't go to Denny's because someone was picking him up in a few minutes.
He is 19 years old, just got out of culinary school. His parents threw him out when they found out he got a girl pregnant. He has a one and half year old son. His girlfriend left him recently, and he's out of money. He has a job that starts in 3 weeks. A friend of his girlfriend is watching the baby so he can stand on the corner, something he just started within the last day or two , and on the weekend he applies for jobs. The friend is also helping him keep the apartment as well as acting as nanny. He cried the whole time she talked to him, insisting that he's not a bad person. He was hanging on until about a week ago and he just has to make it three weeks until the job starts.
Genoa is one of two people who stopped, and the other one gave him change from his cupholder. He had several people yell names at him, and one actually threw something at him and called him a loser. He thanked Genoa profusely for the $20 and she said she'd go get him some groceries and bring them back, but he said his friend was returning soon.
He insisted on hugging her, causing the guy behind her to honk and flip her off because the light had turned green.
How's that for a sad and profound snapshot of our society?
...and make no mistake, I'm crazy proud. She comes by this behavior honestly.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Awards and Cyndi Lauper
If I had a Fashion Blog...
Eric, Me and Jim at the Bobby G awards. I would like to point out that my pants, while made to be uber-large elephant pants, are falling off of my body because I lost 13 pounds. Which makes them just look like a sad puddle instead of a hip stylin' kind of arrangement. The top I purchased that day at Charlotte Russe for $10.00, the sparkle jacket is ten years old from a consignment shop.The scarf, from the set of Legally Blonde, one we bought for the department store, and the leather bag from Italy, given to Genoa by her grandparents. You cannot see the rockin' orange 1970's wedges, which is a damned shame, because they are awesome. Jim intentionally wore this western cut shirt because he thinks he's funny. Eric is clearly the fashionable one of the three, he looks like he's the host of some sort of Makeover Show and we are the sad sacks he talked off of the fashion/house/restaurant ledge.
If I had a teacher blog...
This is me and my student as he accepts his Special Achievement Award at the Bobby G's (The "Tony Awards for High School Musicals")at the DCPA. His commitment to taking care of both dogs on Legally Blonde was impressive, particularly cosidering the wealth of talent he possesses. He easily could have simply not auditioned and walked away. But no, his college auditions interfered with the final show, but not enough to keep him completely away. His application for a job he was ultimately creating for himself was an 8X10 of a chihuahua, handed to me wordlessly.
However I do not have a fashion blog, or a teacher blog,
I have a hot Melted Crayon Mess Blog of past lives crashing in on this life and severe moments of self doubt and a desire to explain Who I Was because I misguidedly believe it explains Who I Am, but it doesn't because Who I Am changes moment to moment depending on the needs of those around me or my audience.
I can hear voices from my senior year of high school.
My mom, showing family and friends photos from People Magazine (my mom bought a People every week at the grocery store. I was raised on it and Reader's Digest) of Cyndi Lauper and exclaiming "If you didn't know any better, you'd think that was kryssi, wouldn't you?" At the time I did not wish to resemble anyone, because I Was An Individual, so I Poo Poo'd it and snorted loudly, but now, when I look back at the photo I'm like...daaayyuummm, I looked like Cyndi Lauper.
One of my teachers, whose name and subject taught I have unforgivably forgotten, going around the room and asking the seniors that Age Old Question: What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?
I had no freaking idea. My theatre teacher had scared me out of trying to go to New York, so I figured I'd maybe be a language arts teacher? A strange look crossed my teacher's face, and she surveyed the room, as if looking for support of her next statement. "Really?" she said, sounding both surprised and disappointed. "I thought for sure you'd be the next Cyndi Lauper, or Bette Midler." I remember being shocked that she would say that because, whatever class it was, I was not successful in it at all. So why would she think I'd do anything successful? I also do not recall ever speaking or participating in that class, I didn't know she was aware of my existence. And lastly, she was old, how did she know who Cyndi Lauper was?
And then there's the voice of Mr. S ____, my math teacher, who flat out said "What are you, stupid?"
It turns out I'm not stupid, but I am dyslexic. I didn't find that out until college. Certainly that's information I could have used earlier in my life.
While that seems like a non-sequitor to you, it makes perfect sense to me. On the heels of every "You could be somebody" statement is another voice telling me I'm stupid.
------
So, Awards are what is dragging this up. The Bobby G's, then the Tony's. I really hate awards, I watch the Tony's to see the performances. Which, may I say, the last two years have been Lame Sauce, what is with all the freaking revivals? And seriously, Phantom has been around for 25 years and they've changed nothing? I texted my sister to see if she was watching and she replied "Blah blah blah gay boys. Blah blah blah statue. Blah blah dance dance. Blah blah talk talk." Which was fabulous, so I replied "Blah blah blah seen it blah blah oh lame intro concept blah blah thank you Edward Albee blah blah blah seen it." Which sums up the evening nicely.
Anyway, in spite of myself I find myself occasionally rooting for someone to win, and this year it was Harvey Fierstein and Cyndi Lauper and Kinky Boots. Not just because Annaleigh Ashford (who is in Kinky Boots) is from Colorado, but because I happen to love Harvey and was just thrilled to see Cyndi. The last time I saw her she was doing "Elmocize" on Sesame Street. She's always been my secret sister. She has no idea of course, that's the "secret" part.
Theatre is a beast, a living, breathing beast. No two audiences see the same show. No two shows are "alike"---although I'm not the only one who watched Matilda perform last night and thought it was actually Spring Awakening Junior: The Middle School Version.
You cannot put a powerhouse classic like Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf in the same category as A Trip to Bountiful. They are completely different shows! Which is why I hate awards. Too subjective. Look at the musical category! Matilda and Kinky Boots in the same category? How is that possible?
Well, the Bobby G's did it, they follow the Tony format. They put Legally Blonde in the same category as Les Miserables. Just because a show is a musical doesn't mean they are all the same, any more than straight shows are all the same. And I know there are those who protest to phrasing plays as "straight" shows, because that suggests that musicals are gay,but I say own it, musicals are gay.
So then I start to ponder the purpose of the awards. The Tony's are clearly about the community, it's the one night everybody gets to see everybody else 'cause they're all working. Which is AWESOME. The acceptances are very different than any other awards, they are clearly grateful but also know it's subjective, and everyone graciously ackowledges everyone else in the category as a peer, not competition.
That is not something I experienced at the Bobby G's The Tony Awards For High School Musicals, unfortunately. There were a few kids from other schools who were a bit snarky to our kids. Which was disappointing, but only reinforced my feeling that we were out of place at the ball, just like Cinderella, and everyone knew it. One of the other kids openly mocked Legally Blonde suggesting it wasn't even a real musical. (The joke is on this kid, I know their director and they're doing Legally Blonde next year.)
My kids were so excited to see the other performances, and so willing to talk to everyone else there and be Theatre Geeks together, and they were sooooo sad when someone threw them a dirty look or snarky comment. If the Bobby G's wants to be more like the Tony's, then they'll have to not invite snarky teenagers to attend. HA. That's funny. 'cause it's an award for high school musicals...heh heh.
So, in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: kryssi's name is spelled like Cyndi's, they share a hair history, Awards Are Stupid and the Bobby G's are not at all like the Tony's.Thank you.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Ten Nominations and a Funeral
2017
So, my weekend in a nutshell is in the title line.
LHS' Legally Blonde was in fact nominated for ten Bobby G Awards.
We went home with two.
There is little I can say that won't sound like sour grapes. The whole thing was well produced, the kids had fabulous time and high school theatre represented.
HOWEVER, as a high school awards event, I have to say that IF you hired a pro to do your design or choreography, you should not allow that pro---who is a trained adult---to accept the award.
First, the pro should not have been nominated unless everyone else in the category was also an adult. Nominating a kid's light design alongside a professional's is just ludicrous. There's that.
BUT, since that is being allowed to happen, I would say secondly that said adult should not schlep up onto the stage and accept the award. I am hopeful that the adult designer had a student designer, student assistant, Student Something whom they taught as they went, and said student oversaw the set build or light hang and focus. And that is who should be on stage accepting an award with their name on it. The student.
That is all I have to say about that.
This weekend in Denver there was a chalk festival, Comic Con and the People's Fair. I taught on Saturday after dosing Genoa who was battling a nasty influenza, and we went to a funeral in Colorado Springs on Sunday. I attended none of the listed events in Denver.
My dad and my Uncle Bob came to the funeral together. It occurred to me, as I watched them walk into the massive church, that they have quite a bromance going on in their elder years.
Dad and Bob have always been friends. Back when Bob and Virginia had the restaurant my dad was there pretty regularly, and he and Bob seem to attend family functions together.
First, I should remind you (if you're new) who Uncle Bob is.
Bob Jaramillo, married to my dad's sister Virginia, is Mexican. He is The Mexican I grew up with. His wedding is one of family lore that (allegedly) an alzheimer's addled Aunt stood up in the middle of and said loudly "Who let in all these Mexicans?" He used to threaten to cut off my ears and make tacos out of them and grab knives out of the silverware drawer and say "Mexican Credit Cards". He regularly referred to other Mexicans as "Beaners" and I got myself into much trouble on more than one occasion because I had been raised around him and I thought it was perfectly okay to call Mexicans "Beaners" and white people "Honkey".
That's Uncle Bob.
Unlike most people who soften with age, the opposite has happened with Bob, and if given the opportunity he will gleefully add the role of "Dirty Old Man" to his repertoire, and once scared the crap out of a colleague of mine when he realized she was Mexican, and a teacher. This was during intermission of one of the shows, and he asked me "Who's that honey?" I explained that she's a teacher with a master's degree, not a "honey", but before I finished he was hopping down the hallway trying to track her down. I heard later that he did frighten her at first, but she perservered and returned for the remainder of the show unscathed. Bob, on the other hand, wouldn't stop grinning and could not have been more proud of himself for leching on my friend.
So, we are at the quiet reception following the funeral on Sunday. Bob and my dad are sitting at the table with us. Bob joined us only after he took a tour of the church's cafeteria and upstairs kitchen. You can take the owner out of the restaurant, but you'll never take the restaurant out of the owner. He sat down and declared that it was one great kitchen and we could throw a heck of a party with it.
The talk turned to other family. This is where a description of my dad is needed. He always thinks that everyone knows what he is thinking, so when he starts a sentence mid-thought you are expected to know what the hell he's talking about. He will also realize that it's possible more than one person could know what the topic is, but from a different perspective or time period, so he will not actually finish a sentance. It goes like this "Krys did you get the email about Raymond...Karie you know Joyce... Tracy, Ray's wife..he's going to Florida, Ray's wife, Bob did Virginia tell you about Ray?"
To which Bob responds incredulously "Ray's dead?"
My dad: "No, his wife died."
Me: " I didn't get the email." I check my new iPhone for the email. OH, there it is, I ignored it becuase my father likes to forward every forward forward forward joke, photo, joke, joke, Did You Know Captain Kangaroo Earned A Purple Heart, joke, joke, photo, Did You Know Mr. Rogers Was A Marine? joke joke joke...so I tend to delete his emails. Even this one titled "Raymond...Important" got skipped becuase it has seven forward tags on it and I don't know anyone named Raymond.
But I digress.
Bob: "Ray's wife died?"
Dad: "Ya, didn't you get the email?"
Bob shrugs, the shrug that says "old fart doesn't do technology."
Dad: "Didn't Virginia tell you? Doesn't your wife talk to you?"
Bob: "Are you kidding? I could walk in the door next Sunday and she'd look at me and go 'How was the funeral?'"
Then he got up to find a restroom, while he was passig my dad he pulled his phone out of his pocket and said "I have this. Don't leave without me."
I looked at my dad and asked if he'd ever left Bob behind, and he just laughed and said "no".
I have no idea what that exchange was all about. Inside joke I'm guessing, but illogically I laughed at the moment, even though I did not understand it.
And the final Bob Quote of the day came when my dad asked if Bob or anyone had gone to a graduation ceremony. Bob just looked confused when my dad said the last name Martinez. Then dad said "he graduated from the police academy."
Bob rolled his eyes and said "That's great, that's all we need, another Beaner with a gun.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Bob Jaramillo!
Thank You!
So, my weekend in a nutshell is in the title line.
LHS' Legally Blonde was in fact nominated for ten Bobby G Awards.
We went home with two.
There is little I can say that won't sound like sour grapes. The whole thing was well produced, the kids had fabulous time and high school theatre represented.
HOWEVER, as a high school awards event, I have to say that IF you hired a pro to do your design or choreography, you should not allow that pro---who is a trained adult---to accept the award.
First, the pro should not have been nominated unless everyone else in the category was also an adult. Nominating a kid's light design alongside a professional's is just ludicrous. There's that.
BUT, since that is being allowed to happen, I would say secondly that said adult should not schlep up onto the stage and accept the award. I am hopeful that the adult designer had a student designer, student assistant, Student Something whom they taught as they went, and said student oversaw the set build or light hang and focus. And that is who should be on stage accepting an award with their name on it. The student.
That is all I have to say about that.
This weekend in Denver there was a chalk festival, Comic Con and the People's Fair. I taught on Saturday after dosing Genoa who was battling a nasty influenza, and we went to a funeral in Colorado Springs on Sunday. I attended none of the listed events in Denver.
My dad and my Uncle Bob came to the funeral together. It occurred to me, as I watched them walk into the massive church, that they have quite a bromance going on in their elder years.
Dad and Bob have always been friends. Back when Bob and Virginia had the restaurant my dad was there pretty regularly, and he and Bob seem to attend family functions together.
First, I should remind you (if you're new) who Uncle Bob is.
Bob Jaramillo, married to my dad's sister Virginia, is Mexican. He is The Mexican I grew up with. His wedding is one of family lore that (allegedly) an alzheimer's addled Aunt stood up in the middle of and said loudly "Who let in all these Mexicans?" He used to threaten to cut off my ears and make tacos out of them and grab knives out of the silverware drawer and say "Mexican Credit Cards". He regularly referred to other Mexicans as "Beaners" and I got myself into much trouble on more than one occasion because I had been raised around him and I thought it was perfectly okay to call Mexicans "Beaners" and white people "Honkey".
That's Uncle Bob.
Unlike most people who soften with age, the opposite has happened with Bob, and if given the opportunity he will gleefully add the role of "Dirty Old Man" to his repertoire, and once scared the crap out of a colleague of mine when he realized she was Mexican, and a teacher. This was during intermission of one of the shows, and he asked me "Who's that honey?" I explained that she's a teacher with a master's degree, not a "honey", but before I finished he was hopping down the hallway trying to track her down. I heard later that he did frighten her at first, but she perservered and returned for the remainder of the show unscathed. Bob, on the other hand, wouldn't stop grinning and could not have been more proud of himself for leching on my friend.
So, we are at the quiet reception following the funeral on Sunday. Bob and my dad are sitting at the table with us. Bob joined us only after he took a tour of the church's cafeteria and upstairs kitchen. You can take the owner out of the restaurant, but you'll never take the restaurant out of the owner. He sat down and declared that it was one great kitchen and we could throw a heck of a party with it.
The talk turned to other family. This is where a description of my dad is needed. He always thinks that everyone knows what he is thinking, so when he starts a sentence mid-thought you are expected to know what the hell he's talking about. He will also realize that it's possible more than one person could know what the topic is, but from a different perspective or time period, so he will not actually finish a sentance. It goes like this "Krys did you get the email about Raymond...Karie you know Joyce... Tracy, Ray's wife..he's going to Florida, Ray's wife, Bob did Virginia tell you about Ray?"
To which Bob responds incredulously "Ray's dead?"
My dad: "No, his wife died."
Me: " I didn't get the email." I check my new iPhone for the email. OH, there it is, I ignored it becuase my father likes to forward every forward forward forward joke, photo, joke, joke, Did You Know Captain Kangaroo Earned A Purple Heart, joke, joke, photo, Did You Know Mr. Rogers Was A Marine? joke joke joke...so I tend to delete his emails. Even this one titled "Raymond...Important" got skipped becuase it has seven forward tags on it and I don't know anyone named Raymond.
But I digress.
Bob: "Ray's wife died?"
Dad: "Ya, didn't you get the email?"
Bob shrugs, the shrug that says "old fart doesn't do technology."
Dad: "Didn't Virginia tell you? Doesn't your wife talk to you?"
Bob: "Are you kidding? I could walk in the door next Sunday and she'd look at me and go 'How was the funeral?'"
Then he got up to find a restroom, while he was passig my dad he pulled his phone out of his pocket and said "I have this. Don't leave without me."
I looked at my dad and asked if he'd ever left Bob behind, and he just laughed and said "no".
I have no idea what that exchange was all about. Inside joke I'm guessing, but illogically I laughed at the moment, even though I did not understand it.
And the final Bob Quote of the day came when my dad asked if Bob or anyone had gone to a graduation ceremony. Bob just looked confused when my dad said the last name Martinez. Then dad said "he graduated from the police academy."
Bob rolled his eyes and said "That's great, that's all we need, another Beaner with a gun.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Bob Jaramillo!
Thank You!
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
'hawks and Shiraz
I'm swigging my Shiraz directly from the bottle this evening.
Usually I have a wine glass, but they are upstairs. I am downstairs. 'nuff said.
So, Bipolar: Discuss.
I propose that all parents of teenagers are bipolar.
Even those with perfect children. Perfect, pretty, sporty, A+ delights that make you proud at every turn and bring you joy when they wake every morning. They are still making you bipolar, because you don't want to disturb the perfect with reality and trying to achieve the balance will ultimately make you talk to yourself, question your life, lose sleep, flip channels compulsively and write or create maniacally at odd hours.
And possibly swig your Shiraz directly from the bottle.
I do not buy the perfect household/idyllic child model. This makes my household brutally honest, and some people don't dig that. Whatever. I've seen the truth: I'm a teacher. Please. Even the smart ones, the talented ones, the quiet ones and the popular ones Have Issues. They may be cleverly masked or even sprinkled with delightful quirks, but they are there. And I talk to their parents, and I know that the traits I find charming are the ones that drive their parents battty. Or more appropriately, drive their parents to Bipolar behavior.
Some of us have children that are more challenging. Some of us have children who are Just Like We Were. But different. The difference being that I--we--never actually acted on these traits. As a bipolar child I just thought I was crazy so I kept the behavior hidden and joined theatre.
And if you'd like to exacerbate the situation, have your child attend the same high school you teach at and be an active member of your theatre department.
Right there you have a recipe for something atomic.
I have no doubt that other teachers with kids in their departments---band, social studies, math, science---have their own struggles. But theatre---dude, by nature a theatre kid is unhinged somehow some way.And in my department, I'm the one they come unhinged to when they hit the "Get out of my room mom you don't understand" days.
They come to me when they think their parents don't understand.
And my daughter, who is also my theatre student, is supposed to go...who?
Insert Atomic Detonation At My House Here.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaannnnnnnnnnnad welcome to bipolar, passive aggressive but angry Crazy Town! Hop on board! Spit in the wind!
And the roller coaster takes off and sometimes we don't strap in, and sometimes I soccer arm them in and sometimes they hope I go flying out, and always Jim is standing by the off switch ready to throw it at any moment...and then the metaphor just gets boring.
I was not raised in a house that hugged or kissed or said "I love you". We also were spanked, mom cleaned like a mad woman and my father was distant. So of course I chose the opposite--we are a hugging kissing I LOVE YOU house of clowns, and I'm a terrible housekeeper, which is apparently too much and annoying, mom. As a LIBRA I have balance issues, so when I try to do fix the balance I inevitably throw something off, somewhere else, because I'm also a control freak.
I could just give up. Walk away. Put up the hawk (which is a metaphor now for a reality then) and fight to the death.
Nahhh...LIBRA. Remember? 'hawk or not, the fight is about maintaining balance and fairness.
It doesn't help that my oldest has a lawyer's gift for seeing around corners and picking apart any agreement and my youngest a gift for maniuplation.
But you know what outweighs that crap? They are good people. Compassionate. They make stupid choices and fight and drive me to swigging from the yellow tail bottle, but I Love Them and the fire, the fight, the compassion, the intellect are what are going to make them stellar adults. Sure they're a mess now, who isn't in high school? They just aren't interested in hiding it. Ok. Their choice.
They are going to be stellar human beings.
While I remain bipolar, snuggling with a kangaroo bottle while watching Caddyshack and saying the lines along with Rodney Dangerfield.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Reservations
Good Evening.
Jim and I went out tonight for our anniversary dinner tonight. The last few years we have landed at the Capital Grille on Larimer downtown. For many years we'd pick and choose different restaurants, different hotels. But the last five years or so it's been Capital Grille. No Contest.
Reflecting my current Crazy Pants state of mind, I took notice of the other diners around us. For Jim and I, this is a Very Big Deal. We drop $200.00 on dinner once a year, and this is it. We dress up, settle in, order a bottle of wine and enjoy. As I looked around the restaurant tonight, it seemed we were in the minority when it came to A Very Big Deal.
There was a family with three children under the age of 12. Dad was dressed casually and kept his baseball cap on. I gotta say, that really bugged me. The kids were well behaved, but not really dressed up. They were casual, everything in their posture suggested a casual night out. Because you are a good reader, you know from the previous paragraph that dinner for two is $200.00. Because you can do math, you can guess what dinner for five would run. I looked at Jim, who was also noting this family, and he said "They look like they do this every Saturday"and without pause we both said "Who has that kind of money?"
Not us, clearly.
This is not a post to whine about finances, settle down. The comment and the family led my mind to my own childhood. We never saw the inside of a place like Capital Grille. Mr. Steak was a night out for us; I'd wear a church dress. Largely because those were the only dresses I had and the only time I'd wear them was at church. I was still me, just shorter.
I think my parents chose Mr. Steak largely because we did not need a reservation. See, my father is not a reservation guy. Reservations are a convention that he either ignores or is immune to. All I know is he never, ever made a reservation. We went to restaurants that you could just walk into. On our many road trips, we ate at Denny's and stayed at Motels that you could just show up at, unless mom was in charge and then we'd have a reservation.
Whatever his aversion to the social custom of reservations was extended to other events that most people would plan ahead for. Things like putting gas in the car before driving to Arizona. Or stopping for fuel at the gas station that says "Last gas for 400 miles". Or choosing to wait an extra day to hit the road because they are predicting severe weather and white out conditions today. Reservations fall under the umbrella category "Planing Ahead" that my father does not subscribe to.
So this is where my head is floating between dinner conversation topics, and I begin to have a panic attack.
It took me a second to figure it out; I had been drinking so give me a break. But I am a compulsive reservation maker. I cannot go anywhere or do anything without calling ahead and checking to see if reservations are needed or recommended. My gas gauge rarely hits E and when it starts to creep down there I can't breathe. I have panic attacks if there is a snow storm after three p.m. and I am not safely home. My own memories were causing me to panic.
So then these casual people, calmly dropping hundreds of dollars on dinner, knew they were going to do so because this is a reservation restaurant. For all of their baseball caps and denim, they did not just "stop in" while shuffling around downtown Denver. They made a reservation and deliberately chose to look like they had just dropped in because...because...? Because that looks cool? Because they want us to think they just dropped in and are cooler than us because they did not need a reservation? They were our age, so there is no "kids today got no respect" aspect to their attitude. I think...I think they're just rich.
I wonder what that's like?
And I wonder if adhering to the rules of reservations comes with your Wealthy Membership card? 'cause I don't honestly remember any member of my father's family ever making reservations,and none of them were wealthy. Of course I have few memories of any of them in a restaurant. Farm people tend to entertain on the farm, near the farm or at someone's house with frog eye salad as far as the eye can see. You do not need a reservation at family reunions. Just show up with your tupperware brimming with home made delicious and start chatting.
So clearly I've just figured out why my father never made reservations. See how writing is therapy?
However identifying the root is not going to stop me from making reservations. Understanding the origin of the issue does not indicate that the behavior will cease. However, maybe now I can have a nice dinner without my own wandering mind causing me a panic attack.
That's all I have to say.
Jim and I went out tonight for our anniversary dinner tonight. The last few years we have landed at the Capital Grille on Larimer downtown. For many years we'd pick and choose different restaurants, different hotels. But the last five years or so it's been Capital Grille. No Contest.
Reflecting my current Crazy Pants state of mind, I took notice of the other diners around us. For Jim and I, this is a Very Big Deal. We drop $200.00 on dinner once a year, and this is it. We dress up, settle in, order a bottle of wine and enjoy. As I looked around the restaurant tonight, it seemed we were in the minority when it came to A Very Big Deal.
There was a family with three children under the age of 12. Dad was dressed casually and kept his baseball cap on. I gotta say, that really bugged me. The kids were well behaved, but not really dressed up. They were casual, everything in their posture suggested a casual night out. Because you are a good reader, you know from the previous paragraph that dinner for two is $200.00. Because you can do math, you can guess what dinner for five would run. I looked at Jim, who was also noting this family, and he said "They look like they do this every Saturday"and without pause we both said "Who has that kind of money?"
Not us, clearly.
This is not a post to whine about finances, settle down. The comment and the family led my mind to my own childhood. We never saw the inside of a place like Capital Grille. Mr. Steak was a night out for us; I'd wear a church dress. Largely because those were the only dresses I had and the only time I'd wear them was at church. I was still me, just shorter.
I think my parents chose Mr. Steak largely because we did not need a reservation. See, my father is not a reservation guy. Reservations are a convention that he either ignores or is immune to. All I know is he never, ever made a reservation. We went to restaurants that you could just walk into. On our many road trips, we ate at Denny's and stayed at Motels that you could just show up at, unless mom was in charge and then we'd have a reservation.
Whatever his aversion to the social custom of reservations was extended to other events that most people would plan ahead for. Things like putting gas in the car before driving to Arizona. Or stopping for fuel at the gas station that says "Last gas for 400 miles". Or choosing to wait an extra day to hit the road because they are predicting severe weather and white out conditions today. Reservations fall under the umbrella category "Planing Ahead" that my father does not subscribe to.
So this is where my head is floating between dinner conversation topics, and I begin to have a panic attack.
It took me a second to figure it out; I had been drinking so give me a break. But I am a compulsive reservation maker. I cannot go anywhere or do anything without calling ahead and checking to see if reservations are needed or recommended. My gas gauge rarely hits E and when it starts to creep down there I can't breathe. I have panic attacks if there is a snow storm after three p.m. and I am not safely home. My own memories were causing me to panic.
So then these casual people, calmly dropping hundreds of dollars on dinner, knew they were going to do so because this is a reservation restaurant. For all of their baseball caps and denim, they did not just "stop in" while shuffling around downtown Denver. They made a reservation and deliberately chose to look like they had just dropped in because...because...? Because that looks cool? Because they want us to think they just dropped in and are cooler than us because they did not need a reservation? They were our age, so there is no "kids today got no respect" aspect to their attitude. I think...I think they're just rich.
I wonder what that's like?
And I wonder if adhering to the rules of reservations comes with your Wealthy Membership card? 'cause I don't honestly remember any member of my father's family ever making reservations,and none of them were wealthy. Of course I have few memories of any of them in a restaurant. Farm people tend to entertain on the farm, near the farm or at someone's house with frog eye salad as far as the eye can see. You do not need a reservation at family reunions. Just show up with your tupperware brimming with home made delicious and start chatting.
So clearly I've just figured out why my father never made reservations. See how writing is therapy?
However identifying the root is not going to stop me from making reservations. Understanding the origin of the issue does not indicate that the behavior will cease. However, maybe now I can have a nice dinner without my own wandering mind causing me a panic attack.
That's all I have to say.
Friday, April 26, 2013
The End of The Year and "Buffy"
Every year at this time I am in the same state of mind.
It's pretty much finished. I have awards to have engraved, an office to dig out and a theatre that has been sadly ignored for the last two months.
I hate all the seniors. Even the ones I love, I hate.
The first time this happened, five years ago, the first year I was in charge, I thought I was crazy. I actually went to my AP and said "I think I need therapy, I hate everyone." She didn't even bat an eye, she just handed me the name of a therapist and said "It's through the district, it's free." I was so taken aback, I never called.
Because how do you explain to an entirely new person what it's like to teach theatre at LHS? Just the basic back story would take a year.
This is not a normal theatre teacher gig. I get them for all four years.
Four years.
I have these beautiful Butt Heads for four years.
And I have allowed them use the theatre as their second home. To eat lunch, create cubbies for their backbacks and unending hoodies and food and jackets and pants and underwear and notebooks and power cords and phone chargers and tennis shoes and dress shoes and tuxes and dresses and medicine cabinets. Sometimes it's only one shoe. Mo used to leave her bras in my office, I'm still not sure how that happened. Doron and Lexi shared antiperspirant and swimming goggles, both of which they left on my bookshelf.
And I set only a few rules. And I throw them out when they have broken them too many times. And I let them back in.
And sometimes they are truly rude and break a rule that throws me for a loop.
And sometimes they are truly exceptional and bring me coffee, or ask what they can do to help.
And every year at this time I hate them.
And I realized today why. It's that damned word allow.
I use it in theatre constantly. Allow the character to emerge, allow your voice to emerge, allow the emotions to come through, allow your body to respond, allow me to direct you.
And the results when directing and teaching are stunning. High school kids who know how to allow? Seriously? Here, have $32,000.00 a year for college as a theatre major. Bam.
But that bleeds into room 146. Into the classroom. Allowing them to keep food in the fridge, to have a coffee maker, a toaster, a hot tea maker. To have cubbies and eat their lunch and do their homework. To use my pens and not give them back, use my computer and "forget" to ask, run through a printer cartridge and reams and reams of paper without a second thought. My day is filled with "Kmart do you have..." and "Kmart can I borrow..." and I never see whatever I hand over again. I average $200.00 a year in new play purchases because they take them off the shelf and don't return them. Why should they?
I thought they needed this freedom, this second home. At first it was great, it was a smaller department and the kids were respectful. The previous teacher had locked them out, they lived in the hall and were only in 146 for class. Those first few years of kids had seen what came before and they were grateful to be allowed.
Five years later that has changed.
They know that the consequences are weak. So what if I kick them out for a few weeks? They'll make a mess in the hall, go to Starbucks, wait until class starts to eat their lunch. They know I can't keep them from working on a show because they do not retrieve their stray clementines, found months later under the lost and found or behind the counter? They know I complain to their parents; they do not care. They know I'm annoyed, and they watch as the few Beauties Who Give A Shit and I tirelessly clean up after them, run bags of crap to the lost and found, sort screws and order more gaff tape and they do not care.
And so, I hate them.
There are teachers who love and support and tirelessly try to convince these kids that they matter, that they are relevant, that they are smart and talented. And I look at these teachers like they are Crazy Pants and shake my head and return to my wrecked cinder block room and empty printer cartridge and broken stapler and tear myself up for not loving them the way other teachers do.
This passive aggressive crap is not a trait I am enjoying. I have raised my children with very similar principals and it has also backfired. They have no respect for me. So why am I surprised that the ones I teach also have no respect?
When I first started nine years ago, one of my greatest traits was "iron fist, velvet glove." I was stern and effective but managed to love them and support their lives. At some point the tables flipped, and I have no control. The lunatics are truly running the asylum.
So what is the point of this blog post?
The same as every other one: reflection. I cannot reflect without an audience.
You're welcome.
All I ever wanted was to be Yoda. Or Giles. Buffy was nothing without Giles. Also he had that cool secret life thing where he played The Who songs on his guitar at a coffee shop.
Or at the least I want to be the voice in their heads when they create future roles. "COMMIT!" "Do or do not, there is no try!" "Get your hair out of your face." "ALLOW!"
I get it now. The last two years of self absorbed, disrespectful kids has burned me out. I get it now.
I do not have to kick them out. I just have to create consequences that matter.
Anyone know how to contact Giles? 'cause I cannot raise an X Wing Fighter from out of the swamp to prove my point. I tried. All I got was a headache.
Maybe then I can sit here on 26 April 2014 and say that my beautiful, respectful and scholarship college bound students are leaving and I Love Them.
Lemme work on that and get back to you.
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