Who Needs Friends?

       This holiday, like many, my brain downloads.  Between the fall show and the musical, two weeks off, no real planning, my choices are limited. I can replay the semester until  I’m certain everything is wrong and work myself up once again over the budget, I can let go and move forward, or I can just sit and stare at the TV for a few days and let the thoughts download.

      That’s what I did. And the topic of friendships kept cropping up.

      And here’s my story, told in delightful, unrelated chunks and chips with the occasional rant.

      Harper’s friend was here yesterday, and said “My mom wants to go to coffee with you. She feels bad that I spend so much time over here and she doesn’t know you.”

      I smiled politely and said “Tell her thank you.”

      She persisted , “My mom really wants to get to know you.”

     “She’ll be disappointed.”

      She sat there blinking, and I felt obligated to continue.

    “I don’t have friends. I have colleagues, I have acquaintances, I have a husband and children. No friends.  It’s ok, it’s by design. I suck at it. I don’t like people. If she wants to meet me for coffee I’ll be rude, or say something wrong. “ I smiled and sipped my coffee on my chair in my home. Where I like to be.

    This exchange coupled with Genoa being back from her first semester of college to encounter the same high school bullshit she left  started a download.

    Not a sad one. I’m not sad. Occasionally Jim and I wish we had friends so we could have people over for dinner, and we’ve made conscious strides in that direction! I think we may have a couple of “couple” friendships. But like all friendships, they take maintenance and time and people have lives and it’s hard.

    You know that Meme: A good friend will bail you out of a jail, a best friend is in jail beside you?

Only once in my life have I been threatened with jail. In college, I was pulled over and received two tickets—one for not having insurance (which I did, it was just in Colorado and I was in Tx and that upset them) and  an expired inspection sticker. No biggie. I took the two papers the officer handed me and plopped them on my bulletin board. I then forgot there were two, and only attended one of the court dates. The second court date was when I went to South Padre for Spring Break. As much as I like to say “I went to South Padre instead of court” it was just a mistake. A warrant was issued for my arrest! I panicked, and immediately went to the Wortham Theatre Lobby to seek advice.  Because that made sense to me at the time. Curtis said “Run”. I called my friend Paul, who said “I’ll loan you the money” without hesitation. When I paid him back after the second court date, he looked completely shocked and said “I never expected to get it back.”

     THAT is a friend. 

     Friends feed you. Again, in college, I shared a house with two-and later three-other theatre kids. For my birthday they bought me groceries. Seriously.

I have no recollection of being anything other than a dick to any of these people, but they took care of me.

     I know what it’s like to not be invited. To have people stop talking or change the subject when you join. To know there is a party you, specifically, were not invited to.

    Or a wedding.

    Three of them, to be exact.

    The first two I kinda got, I am a jerk who cannot shut her mouth, and I had been mouthing off about the groom (#1) or the bride (#2) for quite some time. I did not like them, they were not good enough for my friends to marry.

    So they didn’t invite me.

    The third one hurt, however, as I have no recollection of deserving that snub.

    I have a Magic Santa’s Bag of high school snubbing memories, but who cares? We all do.

    The point is that I just accepted it and I’ve created a life without friends. I know for a fact (Jenny) will be offended, because we are  friends, yes, but she’s busy and I’m busy and she knows I love her and I’m not talking about her. I guess I have one friend.

     Both of my kids have my affliction. Neither makes friends easily. Harp has really made strides toward seeking out friendships, I admire that in her. G is like me in that she latches on to the two or three she has. She doesn’t function well in groups, and that’s genetic.  I go two ways at parties: I am the loudest entertainer there or I slump in a corner with a glass of wine with the ONE other person who feels the same way I do. CASE AND POINT: THE COOKIE EXCHANGE.

      My across the street neighbor  is relentlessly friendly. She knows everyone on the block, has thrown block parties in her backyard, and has a cookie exchange every Christmas. Several years ago my husband forced me to attend the cookie exchange, declaring that I needed friends. And bullying me into a holiday cookie exchange was his way of helping. So I reluctantly attended, and slumped at the counter with a glass of wine with the One Other Teacher at the party, and bitched about our administrators. So…I made one new “friend”, but not really as I only see her once a year.

     Except this year, when I went to Lannie’s Clocktower to watch  Indy Fire’s Burlesque debut instead of attend the cookie exchange. I took my children. Because I don’t have friends.  The dates happened to crash, and I’m so socially retarded I’m unsure if I should apologize for missing the cookie exchange. I doubt anybody noticed.

Merry Christmas. Who Needs Friends?

Harvey and South Pacific

It's pretty typical for me to question everything, including my career choice and sanity during Hell Week. It was exacerbated this week since the lights have been out in the theatre for six months.
    I've been teaching theatre classes on a stage lit by Edison work lights all year.
    We've been rehearsing on the same dark stage.
    They have been teching on a dark stage.
     The kids painted the floor by worklight, flashlight and cell phone light.

   This floor. And the pit the boys are on is a beautiful wood grain. Also painted in the dark.

Also built this door frame and door in the dark.

And I was grumpy.

    Then , on 24 October, the lights came on.
   And I was still angry.
   And depressed.
   And annoyed.
   Nothing was fixed when the lights came up but the lights.
                 The Hell?

   Last weekend a former student of mine gave me a comp to come see him in South Pacific. I hate South Pacific. The music is pretty and all, but The Hell with the story?
    I love Jared more than I hate South Pacific.
     I was running late, the parking lot was full. I had to park on the top level at DU. The Newman Center. I've never met the Newmans, but they sure build a lot of theatre stuff at DCPA and DU. MAybe they'd build me something?
     A lovely older couple held the elevator for me. They were maybe in their late sixties, early seventies. She was very fashionable with her short blonde hair.
    It turned out we were seat mates, she and her husband had the tickets next to me. Really good, close seats, not the usual crappy comps (Thank you, Jared). She was very friendly and asked me if I knew anyone in the show. "Yes, a former student". She pulled out her program "Which one is he?" "Luther Bills". "OH how nice." I did not ask her if she knew anyone.
     The show began. The kid singing Emile was stunning, one of those "Why The Hell Are You Not Already on Broadway" voices. He made me like the music. As he sang "Some Enchanted Evening", my seatmate reached for her husband's hand. Then she wiped her eyes. Then he wiped his. Maybe it was their first dance song? They aren't quite old enough to remember  WWII (those in the seats behind me with walkers and oxygen, however, were but clearly this show meant something to my seatmate couple.)They were not critiquing the disconnected female lead, or the less than stellar chorus voices. They just loved the show.
     When Jared sang "Nothing like a Dame" my seatmate leaned over and asked "Is that your student?"  I nodded. She gushed "he is really good." I smiled. Yes, yes he is.
      When Jared donned coconut boobs and a grass skirt, she laughed her head off. She was the loudest laugher in the theatre! Such joy! The Funniest Thing She'd Ever Seen! She's never seen a boy in stretch socks and boxers and coconut bra! "You must be so proud!" she gushed at me again. She started repeating his catch phrase "get the picture". At one point I began to become concerned that she did not realize other people were in the audience.
      She said loudly "He is so funny! You had something to do with that!  Get the picture?"
      It took 20 minutes to get out of the theatre as I waited for every senior in their walker to go first. I smiled at them and admired their children as they escorted their elderly parent and their various walkers, oxygen tanks, etc. from the theatre. There were two young girls in attendance, also waiting for the slower crowd. They could barely contain their excitement. Their mom said "Do you want to go meet them in their costumes?" And the girls practically exploded with anticipation. As I silently snarked "Seriously? They come out in costume? How unprofessional."
      As a side note on this topic, on  Genoa's fifth birthday  I took her to see The Dinosaur Play at the Arvada Center featuring my friend, Brian, as the triceratops. The cast waited in costume outside the theatre (children's theatre, that's acceptable) and as Genoa passed Brian, he said "Happy Birthday ,Genoa!" It changed her life.
      I toddled into the lobby to look for Jared, hoping to God he was not in costume. He was. A few audience members approached him, bellowing "Get the picture?" I told him my seatmate story, hugged him a lot, made his dad take a photo.

He laughed his big Jared laugh and said she had come and talked to him--although I am unconvinced it was my seatmate, there were many who found him delightful. I mean, look at him! You know he killed in that cocounut bra.


      Back at LHS, we had scheduled HARVEY for only two nights WEDS and THURS before Thanksgiving break. Because the lights wouldn't be on in time for us to do it sooner, and no admin wanted to be there on Friday night before  the break. About three weeks into rehearsal, I leaned that I had no money. None. Someone higher than me had muffed up and not done their job. HARVEY was happening on borrowed money. So I decided to go for a Friday performance to at least make some money. Selling weeknights is rough. A Friday before Thanskgiving break, HARVEY, we'd do great! But admin was unmoved. They were willing to allow a show if I did it at 5pm
     Are you kidding me? Parents can't make a 5pm curtain. I will make no money, this is pointless, WHY DO I BOTHER?
     Then it hit me.
      Old people can do five pm. See the show, have dinner.
      People who actually SAW the movie with Jimmy Stewart when it came out.
      Old People.
       Like the ones at South Pacific .
       Who were there because they liked the show, the story, and it was a matinee!
        After South Pacific I realized I have to let go of making any money. But I'm keeping the 5pm show Friday so people who actually want to come and know the story can attend!
        Because theatre is for those who attend. It's for my seatmate who had a personal connection to Some Enchanted Evening. They do not critique. They do not snark, they just want to enjoy a familiar story. A Delightful, funny, charming story of a grown man whose best friend is an invisible rabbit.
         I do not mean "old" in any snarky capacity. I will be old, I am old. It means I know more. I have more heart, more experience.


      And so.
     TELL THE WORLD. HARVEY is being done just for this audience. People who wish to Enjoy A Show.  For these people who regularly come to my shows and enjoy themselves.  Friday 21 November 2014. Littleton HIgh School.
      5 pm
      Senior Citizens are ALWAYS free of charge at Littleton. And I love them.

All The Feels Part 1

   It isn't enough that I am in Durango, dropping off my oldest at college.

   My youngest did not come with us.
   She has a new job, needed to work and,  ultimately, needed time "away" from us, I guess, which is funny 'cause she's never home, but whatever.
  
    We got up at 9 to have breakfast before the 10 a.m. check in time. Genoa is allergic to calendars or any distribution of information, so we were not sure if that was real. It was. We arrived and she checked herself in, which is when we discovered she didn't have a roommate. They put the kids' names on the dorm doors, and G's was the only name. After some debate she chose the bed with the tree blocking her view of the quad because it is next to the heat register. Since no roommate was imminent, we decided to spring for a fridge and a microwave.
  
    The Durango Walmart Has It Goin' On.
    We walked four steps and were faced with three different sizes of fridge choices. Three more steps and the microwaves appeared! $300.00 later we returned to Fort Lewis and schlepped the electronics up to Genoa's room. Which, by the way did I mention, is on the 2nd floor. I couldn't get a grip on the fridge box, so I put it down for a moment. Another passing parent asked if she could help. I answered "I don't think well, it's just, yes can you just load it on my arms?" That was the second time I realized I had lost my capacity for speech. It happened earlier in the dorm room, when G was unpacking and asked a question and I said "I um shma pants...uh.."  I saw that same parent later at orientation, and she said "I know you, you were almost strangled by a tree." I realized that from her perspective, my scarf had wound around my neck and arms and the box and it looked deadly. I was not, however, anywhere near the tree, I'm not sure where she got that.

    As we were leaving the parking lot for Walmart I noted a family saying good bye to their son. We hadn't even finished moving G in yet, and these people had already shown up, moved him in and moved on. Maybe he was a sophomore, but I doubted it based on the extended hug he was receiving. It never occurred to me to just drop G off. To slow down to 30 and push her out of the car.

   At the bookstore, Jim and I were purchasing the obligatory mugs and shirts, and Genoa and Rachel (her new friend) were walking toward us. I smiled, and Genoa waved books encased in plastic at me and proclaimed "Look what I did! I'm an adult! I bought my books!"

  When we crossed their path a few minutes later, she barely registered our presence. When we said "bye", she did not even notice we had left.
  
   Clearly, she's fine.


    I got a text from her about7 p m, she now has a roommate. She is native American from a res in Arizona, very shy and very sweet, and very unnerved that their suite mates already have boys over.


          She also texted me that she was at a party. Who tells their mom they are at a party? Genoa. Who else? All the feels.

       Clearly, she is going to be fine.

College Is A Thing

       Last night, G and I attended a Ft. Lewis freshmen and parent "mixer" in Bow Mar, thrown by a FLC alum who just likes to do things like this. He opened his home to incoming FLC freshmen from the Denver/ Boulder area so they could meet one another before moving to school, and the parents could also mingle. There was Vanilla Cream Soda and Ginger Ale from a Durango brewery. The BBQ was also Durango based. There were admissions counselors, the school President and alumni mixed in to answer questions and chat. What a generous offering.
       First: Mingling. This is a trait you are either born with or you are not. I fall under the "not" column. Like most theatre people, I'm authentically withdrawn and socially awkward. We are good at our craft because we know how to watch and listen. That guy who's always the life of the party? Not a theatre guy. Watch Jim Carey interviews, he'll back me up. Anyway, in social settings like this Genoa is also socially retarded. We make a great pair. I went with her knowing that if I did not, she would not have gone by herself. By the time we got into the beautiful back yard, which opened onto the lake, Genoa had found a girl from T.J. who is a theatre techie majoring in bio and chem.
      And I was left with the T.J. girl's mom, struggling for conversation. Once I covered "Where did she go to high school?" and "What's her major" I was out. I don't like group settings. I Hate Group Settings. I hate reunions. Family ones are different. But I've never been to a high school reunion because I know I'll hate it. I will offend someone, somehow, or laugh too loudly or judge my weight and get depressed.  Thanks, but no thanks.
      One of the reasons I loved my giant colleges (remember, I attended three) was that I could disappear. I like big classes, a big campus, a big student union where I can disappear into an overstuffed chair. I love being anonymous.
      Genoa deliberately chose a small school due to her social anxiety. In her mind, too big is overwhelming. She wants to be on a small campus with small classes so she knows everybody and feels comfortable. It is weird to me.
      And it was eye opening last night, when Genoa freely chatted with people she's never seen before, excited to make new friends at her new school, and I had to force myself away from her.
      Because I don't want to talk to adults. I wanted to talk to the kids.
      But I did. I mingled. I met 7 parents, the college President and a few alumni. I flipped the "performance" switch on my back so I could function. It lasted about fifteen minutes before I had to walk away and stand at the edge of the lake alone. Then I turned and returned to the parents, chatted up another pair, returned to the lake. Took a picture of the lake. Sent it to a friend who lives in the neighborhood. Texted back and forth with her. Tried to return to the parents but just could not make myself, so I sat with Dene, the President of FLC. I like her. Everybody associated with this school is crazy nice.
      Second: Conversation. Here's the thing. I will listen for weeks. I like listening. But if you won't talk, I will fall silent. (Clearly I am not speaking of meetings with friends, only strangers.) And if you, too, are silent, then I will bow to the pressure of performance and start chatting. And talking. And Babbling. And unchecked, I will say something rude or offensive or judgmental. I will not even know that I'm doing it. Because I am Conversationally Challenged. It is a sub-issue of "Mingling". I'm a director, an actor, a writer, a teacher. I don't Conversation, I Lecture. I Monologue. Please do not force me into these scenarios. It is a bad day for everyone. Thankfully, at 48 I know how to trick people into talking by asking questions that require more than a one word answer. So I know a lot about the kids G is going to college with.
       Third: Genoa is going to college. She has chosen to double major in Theatre and Political Science with a minor in Forensic Science. She is not sure if it's law school or a lab she's headed for.  It was truly wonderful to watch her chat with her new friends last night. She is thrilled to get a fresh start. She learned some great lessons in high school, and between theatre and LHS teachers and Betty Buckley there is barely a trace left of the angry little pink haired troll that started at LHS four years ago. She was genuinely excited about chatting. On the drive home she was bubbling with tales she had heard of Pet Disasters and College Anxiety. She knows kids in her hall, and kids in the other halls. She exchanged phone numbers and spent last night texting a girl she'd just met who graduated from Bear Creek. They are making plans to see each other before they leave for school, maybe do some shopping.
      Fourth: Genoa is going to college. I had the most vivid, heartbreaking Zombie dream last night, and ultimately it was about Genoa leaving for college. I have enough anxiety over her making friends, getting sick, not eating, getting snowed in over a break...she actually made it worse by seeming to adapt quickly and easily to the gathering. When we first arrived she froze up. Her "Go To" is "To Attack" whenever she is uncomfortable. We drove by the house once because there were only a few cars parked outside and she did not want to be the first to arrive. But the moment we were walking up the driveway, Delaney from T.J. and her mom were also arriving. I stepped back and within seconds G had made her first new friend. And How Fortuitous that Delaney is also a theatre techie who is majoring in Biology and minoring in Forensic Science? 

     So, if it's meant to be. I suppose it's meant to be. On 27 August we will drive her to Durango. And leave her there until Thanksgiving break.

     College is a thing.

        
     

The Struggle Is Real.

       "The struggle is real."
       One of Harp's friends is on food stamps.
       Another was just evicted.
       A student of mine may be homeless by the end of August.
    
       None of this is shocking or solitary. These are struggles that have crossed my path regularly over the last two years. Not occasionally. Not "one kid in two years." Consistently. Regularly. Methodically. Routinely. Pick a word.

       I hear the phrase "the struggle is real" bandied about with sass and in reference to everything from paying attention to losing weight. But when I hear it, I think of all the kids in my periphery who have truly, legitimately struggled.
       And then I get depressed.
  
      Because I neither work in a "low income" school, nor do I live in a "low income" neighborhood. These are troubles that are supposed to plague other kids.  Not the ones I teach or who live nearby.

      I don't have any more to say about it, I suppose. I just wanted to get it off of my mind an onto a page.

      
.

Things I Cannot Do Well

              I changed my blog look, and I think it's harder to read. So. Put that on the list. "Cannot change blog look." That is a sub-issue under "Cannot art".
              #17  I cannot teach Pre K.
              I never thought that I could, I wish to be clear. I never said "Lemme at those three and four year olds, Imma teach 'em!" I simply, foolishly said "I'll help where I'm needed."
              So I drew Pre K last week at camp.
              And that topic can now be added to the list of "Things kryssi Cannot Do: Plus Things She Should Not Do."
              I cannot teach Pre K, at least in the camp milieu because camp is "fun". And "fun" apparently translates not telling kids no, or stop, or no, or using my Ice Teacher voice. Apparently camp Pre K means speaking calmly and quietly, calling them "friends" and suggesting that maybe they need to go sit for a moment because they just clocked another kid in the nose, and allowing them to decide when they are ready to return.
              Fuck That Shit.
              (Also I like to cuss. You cannot cuss at a 3.5 year old. Well, you can, but then it's not "fun" anymore, now is it?)
              The answer is "No", no you may not hit, no you may not run around, no you may not scream. No You Will Not Ignore Instructions. NO, you do not decide when you are ready to rejoin the group, I decide that.
               The Hell, people? When did this happen?
               When did we decide that the kids are running the joint?
               So. "Cannot teach Pre K" is now on my list. God Bless Those Who Do, I'm out.

               Along those lines, I believe I am also incapable of teaching mime to kindergarteners, #16. In this case it is not discipline, it's simply translating the art form to something they understand and are capable of implementing. And the only way to do that that I found, after stumbling around for three days, is to have imaginary tea parties, which they already do at home, so I failed there as well. If I had another talent, like juggling, I could add it to keep their attention. But I don't. All I can do is lock myself in a glass box and "walk" past "trees". I asked other teachers, I dug up my training, I looked on the internet. None of it worked. The last day with them I spent 20 minutes just changing the location and weather patterns as they walked around.  So. Lesson learned.
               Good thing I am a high school teacher, huh?

                           

Postcard 3 August 2014

           Sundays are nice. Genoa gets up to go to work. Today Harper got up to go to WARPED. Jim's still snoozing. I am considering a nice walk. Trying not to be cranky that we are out of coffee.
           As I rise, I go to the sliding door to let the dog out, cats in/out.
           My back patio looks like a Quentin Tarantino movie.
           Beginning dead center, there is a mound of internal organs that have become external. And alone. Just the internal organs. Externally placed on my patio. In a pool of blood.
            To the right, the kitten is snacking on what appears to be the hind quarters of a large rat. I assume rat as the thick tail is larger than anything I've seen on a mouse. Where the rest of the rat has gone is beyond me, but I do suspect the innards belonged to him.
             Closer to me is a small, dead bird.
             I open the door for the animal indoor/outdoor exchange, and then close it and walk away. It is too early to deal with this mayhem and I haven't had my coffee.
             After chatting with Genoa as she's waking up, I decide someone should hose off the patio. I don't want to do it, but there is no coffee and I don't want to go out and buy any. So. Someone should hose off the patio. Someone needs to deal with this.
             I look around and realize "someone" is me.
             I gingerly make my way to the garden hose. I do not like untangling the garden hose, as past mass murder scenes have proven that occasionally there is a tiny corpse tangled in the tubing. Once I turn it on and start hosing off the crime scene like a poor grocery vendor after a mob shoot out, I discover a small, dismembered leg on the left side of the patio.
              As grossed out as you are reading this, I have to tell you this is not the first time I have performed this ritual this summer. In addition to the rabbits, we have had numerous birds, mice and a few rats torn to pieces at our doorstep.  We have  not used our backyard for any proper backyard things since Genoa's graduation party, because circling the patio and the deck is a ring of decaying vermin. At first we tried to scoop them up into open space, but after two days it seemed easier to just hose them off and not walk on the grass.
              And that, dear friends, is Sunday.
              So I got that going for me.

Postcards: Homocidal Cat

     This summer, we have been forced to come to grips with the possibility that our cat is either a homicidal murderer, or a mob boss.

      It has been a weird summer for wild life, as in: Where Is The Wild Life? Usually in the Spring the several fox dens in our neighborhood are alive with moms and babies dashing across the street with their breakfast in their mouths. Our neighbors (Vesper's House) had a den in their back yard for years. We could not figure out why our cats were not targeted by the fox mom and babies every spring, until we became aware that one of our cats was a bird killer. And she would leave the bird at our back door, clearly to let us see how great a hunter she is, but also to leave it for the foxes to retrieve later in the evening. Like clockwork, good morning, dead bird. Good evening, bird gone. We finally figured the cat was catching birds for the foxes (fox?), and in return the fox(es) were leaving our cats alone. Brilliant strategy!
      However this year, there are no fox. Foxes? Fox-I. Fox. None. Zero. It's like they just vaporized. And when the predators disappear, the prey multiply. And multiply. Like rabbits. Because they are, in fact, rabbits.
       We are being over run by bunnies.
       I have never seen so many rabbits up here in my life.
       It isn't just the disappearance of the foxes. Fox? Fox-I. The coyotes are scarce as well this year. I have heard them maybe twice this summer. Usually I hear them nightly, jabbering and laughing their way up the street. Even if they aren't actually dancing up the street, the way sound bounces up
here it sounds like that is where they are. But not this year. Where are the coyotes?
        I dunno. I'm not here to answer those questions. If anyone reading this figures it out you can let me know.
        The point is the lack of predators and increased prey seems to have whetted the appetite of our felines.
         The first dead rabbit---a small one---was found on the back porch. Headless. We thought maybe the cat killed it and something else ate the head.
         The second dead rabbit---full sized adult---was found on the side porch. Also headless. Genoa and Harper began speculating how quickly the flies could eat a head. Maybe the flies ate the head, they said out loud to themselves, while Jim and I exchanged glances.
          The third dead rabbit---medium sized---was found yesterday in the yard. Also headless.
          At this point we have to ask ourselves what it is that our cat is trying to tell us.
          Is she simply demonstrating her vast hunting skills now that there are more rabbits available to hunt? Dropping them around the perimeter of the house to make sure we appreciate her trophies?
          Or is she the boss of an intense Kitty Crime Syndicate with whom we have somehow become sideways, and these decapitated hoppers are being left as a warning?
           We weren't sure which of the four cats was the killer, but we had our suspicions. She is all black with a tiny little white mark on her chest. A white tie. Only mobsters wear white ties. My suspicions were cinched today when I let her in and she brushed past me chewing on a cigar.
          How am I to figure out what we have done to offend the syndicate? The cat does not have opposable thumbs, she can't even scrawl the most minimal of hints. I'm left to my own devices, as I try to make eye contact and open tuna. "What'd we do?"
          She just looks at me with her swimming yellow eyes, bored. Laughing inside. I may never know...and because of my own inability to communicate with felines, innocent bunnies are being slaughtered.
          

     

July Postcards-24 July

    These are not even remotely in order. Just sayin'.

 24 July 2014
     After a frustrating day at school in JULY, with no air conditioning, wrestling the light issue which should have been fixed ALREADY and is now pushing my fall show out of the picture...I decided to be the kid who sits at the top of the driveway on my white, Walmart chair with the American Flag sticker, watching my nearly dead, crippled dog enjoy the evening air and slurp a Redhook.

    As I did, my 25 month old, pantless neighbor shouted "HI" from her balcony. Her name is Vesper. She is frequently pantless, which is familiar to me as my children were also, frequently, pantless.
    "Hi Vesper! How are you?
     She extolled a monologue filled with semi-familiar words interspersed with Vesper trying to climb the balcony.
       I asked her how old she is now. She replied "three".
       I know for a fact she is a liar.

      "Where's Jim?" she asked. She loves Jim. Kids and cats love Jim.

       "He is paying bills."""

       She looks at Sundown (who is a dog) "Where's kitty?"

       "I dunno."

        "I have a cayo. A yayo cayo."

        "Yes," I agree, smiling at the orange crayon she is waving at me. "It's orange, I think."

        "Yayo. Yayo cayo."

        At that time, Sock emerged. Sock is, in fact, a feline.

        "Kitty!"

        "Yes, that is Sock."

         "Sock," she sings as she continues to try to climb the balcony. "Where's Hapa?"

        "Harper went to the store."

        "LOOK!" she points at Sock. "Cock!"

        "Yep. That's Sock."

        "Cock! Cock!"

         I continue to drink my beer as the naked two year old yells "cock" from her balcony in my general direction.

         Cleary I am the coolest kid on the block.

 

 

             

   WEDS        I have said it repeatedly and I have said it loudly, there are only two reasons to run:
             1. Someone is chasing you.
             2. Eric Pung has cancer.
          Neither of these are true today, yet I just ran. For the first time in six years. Nobody chasing me. Nobody has cancer. Well, people have cancer, but Eric does not have cancer.
           I am officially that bored.
           Or something.
           Mostly I'm home without a car. I own a car, but Harper takes it every day because she has friends and places to go. Genoa has her own car. Jim has his car which he takes to work.
            I have a motorcycle, but the battery is dead and I can't scrape the money together to get it fixed. I can ride Jim's Harley, but that would require putting on pants. I don't so much want to put on pants.
            So after a week and a half of being home, without wheels, I must have snapped.
            I went out for my daily constitutional, however they are fixing the water main down the street. I do not wish to walk past the guys fixing the water main. It's a weird thing I have. I am too old and over myself to think I will be subjected to cat calls, I just do not want to walk past them. That's all. the fewer humans I have to engage the better off we all are. So. The only option is to schlep around open space for an hour.
           Which is fine, I suppose. It reminds me that "the road less travelled" is less travelled because it is poorly maintained and there are snakes. Wear hiking shoes and carry something more threatening than your iPhone on shuffle.
            So Immma schleppy up and down hills and what not. Denver is foggy from up here today. I take photos that are inscrutable and mean nothing to anyone except for me. It's kinda hot, but not terribly.
            The last mile or so is downhill, and the heat must have gotten to me, but I ran it. I just...ran.
             Nobody was chasing me.
             Well, okay, "run" is a strong word. I would say "jog". Or "fast paced galumphing". Some might even call it "stumbling". But to my bones and knees, it feels like running. So there's that.

              My iPod on shuffle was a fun game. It went from Beastie Boys to Wicked to Steve Martin to AC/DC to Spamalot and I started laughing out loud, remembering that Tina Fey warns us to never let anyone put your iPod on "shuffle" because no matter what, the lame songs will play and everyone will know who you really are. Nobody heard me laughing, because I was in open space, away from people. The grass is really tall, and many bugs buzzed at me, but one can laugh like a loon in open space and be unafraid of judgment. So I hiked and laughed and sang along with Steve Martin "Athiests ain't got no songs!" I love Steve Martin. I wore white to his concert last summer, hoping he would marry me. He did not.
              But I digress.
              Which is a lot of what happened this afternoon. Schlepping and stomping and galumphing and running freed up my mind and I thought about a cornucopia of unrelated things of interest to no one but me.
_____
THURS
         So the hike today, a bit shorter. And no running. A) It's hotter than yesterday and B) I am older today than I was yesterday. I had hoped walking for two days in the heat would help me drop 20 pounds by tomorrow.
         iPhone on random revealed more musicals than I knew I had.
         And Christmas music, which I acquiesced to listen to since it's 96 degrees out. And it's Bob and Doug McKenzie, it's ok that it's not actually Christmas. They are still funny in July.
          And Talking Heads. Asking "How did I get here?" and since it was hot and my mind was melting, I pondered that question.
           I just finished 10 years at LHS. Ten years, one building. I would have to check, but I'm pretty sure I've never done that anywhere. B. Dalton lasted ten years, but that was Littleton to Green Mountain to Baybrook to Houston. So not in one building.
           I had decided after only a year of subbing that I needed to teach. Turns out I'm good at it. But How to apply? No teaching license. Only a B.A. Two children. Somehow I fumbled my way to the CDE website (which I knew existed, I had to get a sub license. I am prone to hyperbole in my storytelling.) Anyway, located open jobs. "Littleton High School, part time Drama Teacher. Tech expertise preferred but not required." Well, that's not me. Another school also had a listing, and they did not care about tech. However their application was inaccessible without magic Teacher Certification Numbers or computer know-how. LHS' could be downloaded and printed. I filled it out with a bic pen. I mailed it, in an envelope, with a stamp.
           About two weeks later, I received a call for an interview.
           I over shot the main entrance and parked by the cafeteria, then weirdly entered by the Forum door tucked away on the side of the building. An omen of things to come.
           I was interviewed by the current teacher, John Kron, and the Asst Principal, also a John. They were both weird, nobody really asked me any tech questions, it seemed I had been invited to watch them tell inside jokes to one another. They asked what musicals I would do and I said HAIR and Little Shop of Horrors and The Pirates of Penzance, because those are the only musicals I like. They made naked jokes about HAIR.  Kron showed me around and acted like I was hired. I left.
           Kron called the next day and said "We'd love it if you would start driving to LHS to teach theatre! There is just one formality, the principal wants to meet you."
           Ummm..."meet" me? Shouldn't he decide if I'm hired or not?
           Also, shouldn't someone address the fact that I am not certified?
           So I return, wearing the same skirt I wore at the first interview because I am superstitious. The principal seemed unimpressed with me, my skirt, my resume or my presence in his office. He acted like I had the job and he was just making sure I wasn't a child molester. It was fine, I was jazzed to teach part time theatre and it was my first interview with a principal. I had nothing to compare it to.
           The principal's phone rang half way through our "interview". He answered it because I am that important and nobody holds calls while I'm present. I insist that it be that way. I sat quietly and waited for him to finish.
           He put the phone down, looked at me and said "Do you want to work full time instead? A part time lang arts position just opened. You could teach both."
            I Am Not Lying.
            That's how I got here.
            I was hired at LHS because I am not computer savvy enough to figure out the other applications. I loved them for that.
            And now, 10 years later, they think we're a STEM school but all my lights have melted in the theatre. Which everyone should have seen coming when they hired me! 
            See? I got that going for me.
                      
            
            

Summmmmer Tiiiimmmeee

  
  11 am   So last night and this morning, for just a few hours, I thought it was summer.
    I put the bike rack on the back of the FJ. G rode her bike up the street, albeit briefly. H jumped on the skateboard and coasted down the driveway.
    It felt like summer, I felt like I'd been asleep all of June and finally, I woke up and it was summer.
    Then nobody wanted to do anything today, Harper took my car and I cleaned the living room, did laundry and some IB training....just like every other day "off".
    Awesome.
    G is watching Breaking Bad, she's experiencing it for the first time. It's hard to watch since I know how it ends.
     The kitten is sleeping, the dog is panting even though he has done nothing today. He is just old.
      I offered to make G a grilled cheese, but we're out of cheese. I could go to the store in her car, but I hate her car. Nobody wants to go to the store in her car, including her.
      I kinda hate summer.
      It was okay when I was doing Hairspray, Jr. 'cause I was doing something. It'll be okay next week when I have the DCPA 'cause I'll be doing something. If you can't afford a vacation then at least you should be doing something. IB Training online is okay for a few hours, but it's mostly frustrating. At least it's doing something.
       G's job is only two days a week, and H has kinda given up on her gig. It's a long way to go to Aurora, even for $12 an hour. She's trying to find a "real" job here in Lakewood. 'cause a job is at least something to do.
       We dug hanging out yesterday at City Park, I suppose that counts as something to do. But you can't do that every day.
        So this was fun. Remember Diana how you said I should write a book 'cause I'm funny? Clearly that is what I should do...
___________________________________________________________________________________

  1 pm. Apparently I'm watching Breaking Bad with Genoa today.
  1.20 Tried to turn on the sprinkler thing. It won't rotate. Of course it won't. Why would it?

_____________________________________________________________________________________
7.19 pm.
              Went to the store in Genoa's car. We both hated it.
              Came home, put Breaking Bad back on. Poured a glass of wine. Went outside.
              It is no longer hot. It's a nice night.
              Made Genoa write two thank you cards.
              Put the kitten on her leash. Which is attached to the water can. Which goes "Clamp-CLUMP" every time she tugs on it, frightening her. It is funny to me.
              Outside is really nice. Wine is really nice.
              Walter White running over homies with his Aztec. He is not so nice.
               Clamp-CLUMP.
               This is nice.
                I tried to put on the sprinkler earlier, evoking summer. But someone stepped on it, it does not rotate. I got depressed and turned it off. I turned it back on. Who cares if it's broken? So am I.
                But if it's on, the kitten doesn't want to go to that part of the yard so much. Just to the grass where she can graze. Because she is clearly not feline, but bovine.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 Sippy the wine. Ahhh...
                 The sound of our neighbor's toddler singing in her yard. Summer candy.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 The sound of the water in the sprinkler. The hell IS it about that sound that makes it summer for me?
                  And of course it's broken, everything I own is broken. My freaking THEATRE is broken and it's not even mine. Well, it's not mine when the Principal wants it, but I think it's mine when it's broken.
                   Clamp-CLUMP.
                   Sippie.
                   Sound of neighbors behind me. They have a pool.
                   I hate them.
                   Neighbors on the other side, sound of guests chatting. Smell of bar- b- cue.
                   I hate them, too.
                   This is why I have no friends. And I'm ok with it until I have no friends and other people have friends. And a pool. And I can hear them.
                   Clamp -CLUMP.
                   Kitten has no friends. She just wants away from the terrible Tin Meanie so she can graze in peace.
                  kryssi has no friends so she listens to a drug cooking science teacher while torturing her kitten and hating her neighbors.

                     Yop. It's summer.

             

Community Theatre

   Tina Fey on her community theatre experience growing up: "We should strive to make our society more like Summer Showtime: Mostly a meritocracy, despite some vicious bacikstabbing. Everyone gets a spot in the chorus. Bring white shorts from home."

    Kryssi on community theatre: "Community Theatre is where young actors are born and where old actors go to die."

   I almost did  a show with Lakewood Players back in the day. Halfway through rehearsals the director quit. I never tried community theatre again, I thought that my experience was the norm:  All directors are prima donna assholes, and it's weird for a fourteen year old (me) to play "Electra" in Gypsy,( who is a stripper), with full grown women playing the other strippers. And mostly full grown men in the male roles. It was too weird, so I stuck to shows at school. Everyone I did shows with, however, had been in ACT shows and had warm, accepting experiences in community theatre. Even if Reno Sweeney was 14 and Sir Evelyn was 28.

   When I was hired to do Hairspray, Jr. as a two week summer camp for 7-12 graders, the age thing was not on my mind. Mostly on my mind was doing Hairspray in Highlands Ranch with one black kid, who was bussed in from Arvada. The hell? But I was willing to just go with it, as I seemed to be the only one consistently giggling when the white girl playing "Motormouth" sang "The night is black as my skin."

    During a final rehearsal we had a kissing class. 'cause Tracy and Link need to kiss, and Seaweed and Penny should kiss. Seaweed and Penny came to me during lunch,  Penny deeply concerned about kissing because Seaweed is "so much older than I am. He's four years older than me."

          And of course, the delightful demon in  my head began jumping and clapping and singing "And he's black! Mostly it's because he's black! You don't want to kiss the black kid!"

    To his beautiful credit, the kid playing Seaweed was very supportive of her and agreed he thought the age thing made it weird. Penny had not had her first kiss in real life yet. Rather than explain at great length that she's acting and stage kisses do not count, I let it go. In addition to the cavernous difference in their ages, he was about three feet taller than she was. That made him look older.

    Also, he's black.

    I kept trying to tell myself that she really was worried about the age thing, because it's HAIRSPRAY and the whole show is about race. Well, the whole whole show is about race. In the "Jr" version they remove huge chunks of story line, so truly, unless you're paying attention you could miss it, particularly when there is only one black actor.  So I smiled and made it work for them, and they were happy.

    Theatre camps are a thing now. When I was a kid we had community theatre. That was it. Theatre Camps were back east, or in the Catskills, where the richie rich kiddos went for a summer of theatre instruction and performance. I imagined they were like the movie, CAMP. (Which everyone in theatre should watch, by the way. Those are your people.) And those camps still exist, and they go all summer. But they aren't community theatre-esque. They are a different beast. They are expensive and full of truly talented, Broadway bound kiddos. Or so I imagined. I do not know for a fact since I never attended such a camp.

    Theatre camps seemed to have taken the place of community theatre. We still have community theatre, yes, but it's  moved toward young adults and adult teachers who do theatre over the summer. Teenagers get left out unless they are a true triple threat. Theatre camps have taken that spot. But you have to pay tuition for the camp, so it cannot truly be "community" theatre when many kids cannot afford to attend.

    Which reminds me of the immortal words of Edward Albee: "Theatre is too fucking expensive."

    I really dug the way things were set up with Hairspray, Jr.  It felt like a real community theatre, everyone got a spot in the chorus. But not everyone got to be a part of it, because it is tuition based. My friend Dr. Megan did several shows with ACT in high school, and she said they sent home what your costume needs were and your mom made it. Her mom drove her all over Lakewood for rehearsals, and after the shows they would all go to the Organ Grinder. It was truly community. Everybody got to do it and nobody paid tuition.
   
      Clearly I  haven't been "out there" in a while, as I'm struggling with the new definition of "community theatre" as it exists with theatre camps. I'm also struggling with the way working on this has altered my thinking about how I teach, in general.

     I was flabberghasted at how willing and eager these kids were to learn theatre. Since it's a "community camp", it's weird. The kids who sign up aren't necessarily theatre kids. Their talents are all over the map. I had assumed--and every time I assume I'm wrong--that because it is called a Performing Arts Academy, there would be a level of experience and talent among the kids. Nope. We had kids who had never been on stage before in their lives. And several who were practically raised in this program, who use it as their theatre outlet because they are in sports or clubs at school that prevent them from doing theatre. And everyone in between.

     And every single one of them was respectful. Kind. Willing to help. Excited to learn something new. Jazzed about being on stage. The camp runs two shows -Aladdin, Jr. was second through sixth grade and they shared time and lunch with Hairspray, Jr. So the older kids mingled with the younger ones, ate lunch and snack together. Started and ended their day as a big group. Everyone showed up happy and left happy.

    Nobody was a prima donna. Nobody was rude or tried to direct another actor. When Genoa came in to give them instruction on how to create hair and makeup for 1962 they were attentive, and excited and willingly did their research.

    They gave me candy and love notes. They asked if I was coming back next year. They thanked me.

     This "camp" was the closest thing I have ever experienced to a true community theatre. It doesn't mean that other programs do not exist, I just haven't worked for them. There were bumps and issues, mostly attributed to the fact that this program is growing. So what? Growing pains are not a bad thing.

     I'm not sold on a "no cut" show at the high school level, but I did love feeling appreciated. It was gratifying to see them work so hard, even if they did not have the talent to pull it off. Even if there was not enough time between class and performance for them to synthesize, they still did the work. I told Eric after the show that's what was frustrating for me, but I know what they learned on this show will show up the next time they do a show. An Acting Grenade. I pulled the pin, but it didn't quite blow up yet. That's ok. It's waiting to go off.

   If the lights in my own theatre do not get fixed, this is my back up plan: Work this camp and the DCPA. There is no retirement plan, so I'd have to teach Lit at LHS. My husband is very wound up about my retirement plan.

     Or I can just take what I've learned, and return to this next summer. If the lights at LHS do not get fixed, my kids can bring flashlights from home instead of white shorts.

      So I got that going for me.
    
  
    

Act 1: The Theatre Is Dark

    May 2014
  School has been out since 22 May. G's graduation was 23 May.
    It is promptly 2 June, and I'm presently aware that it is summer.
    In those 10 Days, Genoa has graduated from high school, I logged in my final grades, pulled my desk out of my office and did the first office purge in 3 years, went over the set design for "Hairspray, Jr.", worried about the set designs for Harvey and Beauty and the Beast, had a sad budget meeting with the department chair, attended "New Teacher Training" at the DCPA, attended the Bobby G Awards, received a phone call from our instrumental music teacher which began with "I can't get the theatre lights on and it smells like something is burning", threw Genoa a graduation party, started lesson plans for both St Luke's and DCPA, checked and rechecked my calendar to make sure I wasn't missing something...and oh ya...briefly wished my husband HAPPY 25TH ANNIVERSARY.

     In the tradition of Gruesome Playground Injuries by Rajiv Joseph, I will tell the story out of order. Broken. Like my memory. And my spirit. ;)

     
      Thursday afternoon, 29 May, as I was cleaning the house and watching Bar Rescue, my cell phone rang.
      "Hi kryssi, it's Don. I'm in the theatre and I can't get the stage lights on. I was wondering if I was missing something."
       EXPOSITION: The dimmers started failing in October. We walked in on Halloween to a completely dark theatre. Many light instruments had melted as it appeared there was a power surge right before the dimmer(s) popped. This event killed our Stage Manager box and three dimmer packs. Since then you have to switch on three dimmer packs, a newly installed "oven switch" hard wired to the house lights, travel to the lights booth to get the stage lights on and flip the master switches for the work lights.
       The dimmer packs are old and the company that built them is out of business. They cannot be repaired except, according to the theatre light professional trying to fix the debacle, by some phantom man who lives in Canada. He is referenced as "There's a guy who lives in Canada who can repair these", but then nothing more is said. Or done. It's neat. And that is the abbreviated exposition.
        Also Note: I am not an electrician. But I play one daily at school.
        I know Don knows this routine, so I suspect he's done everything except check to see if any of the fuses were tripped. This is a thing that happens when the dimmer packs go blooey. "Did you check the fuse box by the dimmers?"
        "Yes, one of them has been tripped. I should reset it. Also I smell something burning."
         My brain is yelling "shit" at this point.
        "Don, it sounds like the dimmers are going again. Maybe you should just leave."
        "I have marching band on stage."
        Okay...
        "Try the fuse box in the light booth, the one on the wall."
        "Right! I didn't try that one."
         "Or, just leave. Something is burning."
         "I'll go try the one in the lights booth. Thanks."
         Don is one of the most positive people I know. He will flip every switch and reset every fuse before admitting defeat. Even if he smells something burning. Not snow nor rain nor searing heat, nor something burning that is likely electric will stop marching band rehearsal.
         "Call me back if it doesn't work, k? See you tonight."

         I did  not hear back from Don, but I did receive an email from our principal entitled "Theatre Lights: DO NOT USE" which began "Dear Friends". It ended with "Let's hope someone in the continental United States can fix this..." Somewhere in the middle of the email it is mentioned, casually, that there is ash by the dimmer packs, it smells of burnt "something", it appears one of the dimmers may have melted and the principal has now locked the dimmer cabinet.

         Now if you recall from the beginning of this post that this issue began in October. If you look at your calendar, it is June. In those seven months we managed to put up a musical, the seniors put up Lend Me A Tenor and we had Choir Pops, Instrumental Pops, Performing Arts Awards and Senior Convocation. We did it by turning on three dimmers, the oven switch, running to the booth, troubleshooting and backup planning when an electric failed, or turned itself on and off...and on again... and buying flashlights as a backup light source. Within days of school being over, the system decided to complete its death throes. Of course I can only hope that the district electricians shut down all power to the theatre before locking the wood doors six inches from failing, melting electrics.

       One of the reasons I had to clear out my office is that my floor is made of asbestos tiles. They must be waxed yearly, and according to the district environmental guy asbestos is misunderstood, and only dangerous if it is chipping, which my floor is, and waxing it yearly keeps the danger at bay. They haven't waxed my floor in three years. I can rest assured that if the theatre burns down, my office floor will be safe.

        So I got that going for me.


     
    

 
 

    Tonight is Genoa's senior prom night.
     Interestingly, I do not feel compelled to drag up my own Senior Prom Night Crap. Other than to say: It Was Crap. GMHS felt that in order to insure that kids didn't drink, the best choice was to have DINNER and PROM together at a hotel downtown. In your expensive prom dress, eating buffet. NEAT. For The Record: I took Jim. I had a recovering mohawk/mullet. We wore matching tuxes. I went because my mom said I would "regret it your whole life" if I missed my senior prom. It Was Dumb. I am not glad that I went. I regret not going.
      But Genoa is there. The LHS prom is at Coors Field. With her boyfriend, who lives in freaking Thornton for God's Sake, but whatever. Harp is not at prom, she is babysitting. Her choice: make money babysitting or spend money and go to  prom? Easy one for her. I can always rely on Harp to be pragmatic. I do love my kids.
     Becuase Prom is Fucking Stupid. Why am I the only one who sees this?
     I quote Buffy The Vampire Slayer: "And this isn't important? This happens to be the dance."
    "It's a stupid dance with a bunch of stupid people that I see every stupid day."

     And THAT is how I feel about the prom. Always have, always will. Scene.

     Now I suspect that Genoa feels the same way. However, she does have a need to feel like she is a part of something outside of theatre. God Bless her, she auditioned to be a graduation speaker, she's playing golf, she is really trying to branch out of her comfort zone. Which is THEATRE. And theatre is where everybody else goes to branch out. But Genoa, having been raised with The Beast of Theatre, has to work to fit in everywhere else. Her comfort zone is where others venture tenuously. Where others thrive and judge and snark and live- High School- is where she is uncomfortable.

    My girls grew up in theatre. With the crazies. The broken, the damaged. I said once that the symbol for theatre was the Statue of Liberty, paraphrased: Give us your broken, your crazy, your disenfranchized, your gays and your creative geniuses. Everyone laughed, but...it is true. It never occured to me that raising the girls in theatre would cause them to be uncomfortable in the main stream.
    And by "uncomfortable", I mean smarter.
    No judgment. But when you are raised around creative minds, honest emotions and playwrights who examine the human condition...you are a step ahead of your peers.
    And you do not, so much, "fit in".
    At least in the general population of a high school. What do they call that in prison? Gen Pop?
    Unfortunately, even inside a theatre you can be perceived as weird. In G's theaco there is fear and judgment and crazy entitlement and privelege.
     Sigh.
     Theatre calls you or she doesn't. In high school it's hard to hear her voice, to feel her loving arms because you have issues and think you have to prove something. So sometimes, you really aren't called at all. She does not want you, but you are determined, or angry, or think you deserve it or your friends are there or whatever your deal is.
     It is interesting to me that in the last ten years, I have watched my theatre department become "popular". I wish I was kidding. The theatre kids are perceived as "popular".
     The Hell?
     What this means is that I am inundated with many who have not been "called".
     And frankly, they are the ones causing problems for those who have been called.
     And that's why Genoa, who has been called, is playing golf and going to prom. Because the influx of High School has made its nasty way to my precious sanctuary.
     Or it could be that she finally just got enough guts to talk to the golf coach.
  
     Meh. Have another glass of wine,  kryssi.

 

     

    


 

The Main Stage

      As I watch Genoa twist and squirm as she tries to make her college choice, and as I myself twist and squirm as I try to stay out of it, I am forced to reminisce about myself. And nobody wants to hear me talk about myself, so I'll write a blog.
      I was never a "Main Stage" Kid. At least in reality. In My Own Head it was always about Me, yes. But in the real world, not so much. In high school I was fringe. My GPA was pathetic and I liked choir and theatre and lit. I have no recollection of ever doing homework, but I know I felt like garbage when the kids who did do their homework went to College: Ft. Lewis, ASU, Somewhere In Iowa, CU, UNC etc etc. By the Grace of God and the Will of K.Starkey I enrolled at Metro, thinking I'd be a lit major and teach English. I had decided, you see, that theatre wasn't going to work out for me because I couldn't afford to go to New York. But that is not the point of this story.

     I switched from Metro, to UCD, to the University of Houston, to CU Denver (they'd changed the name by then) to Metro for my teaching certificate. At UH I worked with Edward Albee in the Black Box, and took a  class with Jose Quintero, but never made it onto the Main Stage. I just wasn't talented enough crack that proscenium. Or so I thought. Now I believe it was just a round hole and I was a square peg. Fringe. Not Fit For The Main Stage.  I loved my time at UH, and to this day if someone asks me where I went to college I say "UH". But I was not a Main Stage kid. Like the kids we called "lobby rats", I scuttled around the edges and learned what I could from those willing to teach, but ultimately, I left no impression. I was not a star.
      Now I work for the "Mane Stage", named before I arrived since we are the Littleton Lions, and I run the joint. I scuttle and schlep and galumph around the edges, poking actors and yelling "Commit!", stitching buttons or hot gluing hems. Waving my arms at the kid in the grid as I explain 45 degree angles and bastard amber. Even occasionally walking the set with a drill. (It is NOT a good day if I have to walk a set with a drill. Someone is fired at that point.) I design or try to, teach design or try to, unlock doors, keep the stage manager on task, offer a shoulder for the weeping and a Mohawk for the annoying. I take away fridge privileges and supervise as the dead microwave is smashed to pieces. I yell at them to go to college: "I don't care where, just GO!" and preach "You get out of college what you get in. Do not go for a NAME stamped on your diploma. Follow your heart, find the program that feeds your soul and will not bankrupt your family."
       And then I cannot practice what I preach, because I was never hand picked for a conservatory program and offered a scholarship, but my daughter was, so she HAS to go there, right?
       Oklahoma City University has turned out to be one hell of a powerhouse department. Who knew? And Genoa was all about it, but it's a degree with a double emphasis in Theatre Costume design and Set design. No stage time as an actor. Internships and a guaranteed job at the end. But a double major is impossible, and minors are not recommended.
       Genoa was sold up to that point.
       So she decided to visit Ft. Lewis. She likes Durango, they have a solid liberal arts program, are kinda hippie-tastic without being too annoying and the theatre had offered her a scholarship.
       So we visited.
       Ft. Lewis could not be farther away from OCU if it was on Pluto.
       She could double major in theatre and poly sci and pick up a minor in anything else she wanted. She thinks maybe she'd like to go to law school. She could work in theatre her whole life, she doesn't see that going anywhere, but is not ready to give up being an actor. Ft. Lewis ain't OCU. There is no stellar architecture, stained glass or three stages. No BFA with connections and only 3,000.00 students on campus. She cannot say she was "hand picked" for a degree program that has 35 kids in it if she chooses Ft. Lewis.
       Ft. Lewis' theatre is smaller and possibly older than the one she is in now.
       She's a slam poet. She decided to play golf senior year. She is a Makeup and Hair designer with an interest in costume and set design. She lights up when she talks about religion or philosophy. She wants to study abroad. She gets distracted by history and literature, and has entertained the idea of being a teacher.
       In a nutshell: she truly has no idea what she wants to do with her life. Only that theatre will be a part of it.
       And she says "I'm waiting for a sign to tell me where to go."
       And I have to stand there, on the fringe, and watch her twitch on the Main Stage and be supportive and try not to point out that, the sign is there.
        Are you listening to yourself?
        The answer is there.
        But mom...me...must stay out of it.
        She was practically drooled on by the Ft. Lewis Dept Chair who sounded like he'd give her full tuition if he could. He Loved Her. And She Loved Him. He talked to her. The OCU department chair--who is my new best friend --talked to me.
        But that was not a sign.
        Keeping my own shit out of my daughter's life has never been easy. But man, it sucks right now.
        She has to make her own choice. And I want her to be happy.
        And I don't want her to go through what I did.
        That is the American Dream, right? To give your kids the chances you did not have?
        I had to attend Metro because my GPA was a joke. I transferred to UCD as soon as I could because I thought it would look better on my transcript. Moved to UH because Jim moved to Houston and enrolled at UH because it was there. No research at all. I literally wandered onto the campus and enrolled. I had to leave UH when I ran out of money, and returned to Denver to re-enroll at CU Denver to finish my damned degree, once and for all. I worked 2-3 jobs regularly while attending all the schools, got married, had everything I owned stolen, owned cats, acted and auditioned everywhere, all of the time.
        12 years after I graduated from high school, I had a B.A.
        Financially we'd have to take a second on the house to make OCU work, even with the generous scholarship. But I would do it, because...
        Well, she's been given that chance.
          Right?
          She'd have a shot at the Main Stage.
          SIGH.

         So Genoa just came home. "I've made my choice."

               ...



              
      
       

OOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAKLAHOOOOOOMAAAA where the wind ...does something something something...

And here I am, looking up at the grid at OCU that drops down to you when you do a light hang.
I almost wept. This is their proscenium. Their other stage is a 3/4 where they are doing Picasso at the Lapin Agile. They also have a black box. Three working spaces. Three.


Things I Learned In Oklahoma City:
-It's actually a real city. Just like  Houston, I was unaware that cities exist outside of Denver, Chicago,NYC and California.  Yes, I am an incurable SNOB.
-They proudly call themselves "Recession Proof", and all evidence points to this being true.
-Oklahoma City University is a real school. Like...A conservatory within a university that still makes you take Gen Eds.
-The highway system is just as stupid as Houston.
-It seems flat until you are leaving, and then it is downhill.
-The OCU school of Music and Dance is one of the top ten in the country.
-The OCU Theatre has degrees in both Acting and Production and Design and the 60 students in both programs are hand picked.
-90% of OCU D&P grads are working in their field after graduation.

So I've wandered from Oklahoma City to OCU. Clearly. We chose not to see much of OKC as the highway system stymied us and there were margaritas just around the corner from the hotel. And after spending a day on the campus, I was ready to write a check. Speaking with the authority of a high school theatre teacher (Limited Authority), who did most of her training at UH (Excellent Training) and finished at CU Denver (Minimal Training) and has guided many students through their college choices ( from Rich Kids to Poor Kids to "I Wouldn't Be In College If Not For My Theatre Scholarship), I say: There Is NO school in Colorado that promise and deliver what OCU can.

    The kids must do an internship to graduate. The culture dictates they do one every summer.
    They are awarded internships in NYC, Chicago, Cirque du Solei in Vegas, professional companies in OKC...there is a long list.
    Summer NYC is mostly for the performance majors, but nothing says a techie can't go perform for the summer in NYC and meet agents, network and take workshops.

     I must say that most schools with big price tags (which OCU has, make no mistake) ride largely on Their Name On Your Diploma. "Shmah Shmah look at where I went to school I Paid  A Lot". But those schools, in general, do not have profs who make personal phone calls to get their kids jobs. Which is much easier to do when you have only 35 kids in your program.

     Did I mention they are all hand picked?

     I was ready to write a check right there.

The space where Picasso at the Lapin Agile , all student designed and acted, will perform in April.

    The D&P prof, Jeff, is my new best friend.
  
    He said these things:
    -This is hard. This is really hard. We're like a conservatory but you have to take Gen Eds.
   - You are going to hate me. And when you are homesick you will be in my office.
   -I know each kids' name, their history, where they went to high school. I know what they did over spring break and where to find them if they don't come to class.
    -This is a small school, we have 3000 students total. If you want the big school experience, that's great, do not come here.
    -This is hard. We do not have a wash out rate. You will succeed and you will graduate in four years. I have had one kid who had to leave for family reasons. That's it.
     - This is hard.
     -We prefer that you do internships in other cities. I had a girl who really wanted to move to Chicago, so she did an internship in Chicago this summer. She decided that Chicago was not what she expected it to be. Good thing to know before you move your life out there.

     Jim liked the words: "jobs", "employment", "this is hard" and "we don't train you to just do theater for theatre people, there is a world out there."

  The lighting prof, Aaron, is from NYC.
  He makes phone calls regularly to get the kids internships---paid and unpaid---and jobs.
  He asked Andy and Genoa what they worried about the most for college. They said "Money". He took it in stride. "It's expensive, but you'll work." His attitude was "Whatever, want a good education? Pay for it."

         AHHH!!!!!!
  
       I am a monetarily poor teacher, no raise in last three years, furlough days and no chance for a "hey you're cool" raise. With a husband who has been either unemployed or underemployed for years.  And our daughter was given a scholarship to this Oasis. Not enough to cover everything, and maybe not enough to not require student loans.
      But guess what? WHO CARES about student loans if you are working in your field after graduation????? My fear is she'd go ...anywhere else...and get her degree and work as a barista at Starbucks.
      NO WAY that is happening at OCU.

    Thom Uhl tells Genoa to Follow Her Bliss. He says Take Out Student Loans! Go!!! Follow!
   
    Usually I like to mock Thom, but know what?

    Follow Your Bliss! Take Out Student Loans!!
    (it'll be okay if you can get a job!!!)

      A Moment in History: I have only been taking kids to ThesCon for five years. In that time we have had some crazy success. This year they received 130 callbacks between the 9 of them.  I have kids who have received money to attend Pepperdine, SMU, Evansville, Stephens, St. Marys...but none at OCU. OCU was always unattainable. The rumor was that they only called back DSA kids. So I was kinda snarky toward them. Then two years ago, I met Ashleigh. She is the costume designer at OCU. She was headed to the auditions and was early. So she and I sat outside of the meeting rooms waiting for the acting auditions to end so she could start the tech portion. I sat and listened to her for about an hour. She is magnificent. A Set designer by trade, she switched to costumes when she wanted a Better Job and moved to OCU. She said they hadn't had any Colorado kids in a while and were considering not returning next year (which would be 2013). I spoke little, just listened because she was clearly My New Best Friend and more talented and magnificent than I.  I did have an actor called back last year, but since she was tech I kept it to myself. However I did my best to market OCU to that actor, but she was not ready to leave the state. Which is fine.

    Then the tech auditions began and she got up and left. She had firey red hair and a stunning blue ensemble with excellent shoes I could never wear. A Costumer who knew how to market herself. AH! Such Bliss!
  
    I had said nothing because A) Possible conflict of interest, I am a theatre teacher after all  and B) I wanted her to talk and I wanted to learn. I had no hard core tech kids auditioning that year, but still didn't want to be all "Hey, pick my kids!" So I never really introduced myself. She got I was somebody's theatre teacher, somewhere, what other adult would be hanging out at ThesCon?
    Anyway, I took everything she said and put it into prepping the tech kids for this year...and three of them were called back to OCU.
     And one of them was my daughter.
    If you were paying attention at all, you know I have had NO TECH kids ever called back to OCU.   And only one actor.

      So.

    The moral of the story:
    Oklahoma City is a real City.
    Oklahoma City University is a school on par with SMU, Pepperdine and Evansville.
    Shut up and listen.

  

                                               And this is one part of their shop.

                                                         And this is Genoa, ready for college.

                      And now I have to go. Carol Burnett is on the Big Interview.