Wednesday, November 30, 2016
What the word "Evacuation" means to me.
So....eight years ago there was a fire on Green Mountain. Summer time. Clear skies. Molly Burnett had just started her gig on Days of Our Lives and I had the TV on to watch her.
When I smelled smoke, the girls set out on their bikes to investigate. They rode down to Will and Katie's to see if they wanted to ride up a block or two to investigate. Will and Katie declined. So the girls rode back, and we walked up to open space. We could see the top of the fire from the top of our street. I wondered briefly if we were in danger. I figured someone would tell us. A West Metro Fire truck headed up our street as the smoke thickened. They stopped at the entrance to open space, pondered the fire plug, discovered their truck couldn't make it up the trail in open space...and drove off.
More smoke. I returned to the TV, where there was now full coverage of the fire in my backyard and Days of Our Lives in a tiny box in screen. As the girls and I sat down to watch, we closed our windows to keep the smoke out and I wondered if the smell was enough to get in the furniture. The news said they'd do a reverse 911 if we were to be evacuated.
Shall I recap: There is smoke outside my door and I can see the fire from my house. Nobody has called me.
We leave again to walk the other direction to the east entrance to open space, and see the people who live right on the edge watering down their decks and roofs. I wonder if we should water our house.
The smoke is too thick to be outside, so we retire to the house and watch the fire on TV. The phone doesn't ring. We drink every juice and soda in the house. We're particularly parched, you know: smoke outside. We decide when Jim gets home at 5---the mountain has been on fire all day and we've heard engines trying every entrance but clearly they've never had to do this before because they have no idea how to get up there--at 5 the girls and I load up the car to go to King Soopers for sodas. When we return ten minutes later, there is a police officer, lights blaring, blocking the entrance to our street.
The following scene ensued: Kryssi drives up alongside the officer. She shows him her driver's license, assuming the issue is that he's trying to keep out lookie loos.
"Sorry, ma'am, there's an evacuation. You can't go home."
"Bullshit. I've been home all day, that's why we had to go get soda, it's a bit smokey up there."
"Sorry, there's an evacuation."
"Says who? Nobody called."
"The neighborhood is on mandatory evacuation."
"Cool, then why don't you drive to my house and get my husband, cats and dog, who do not know there is a mandatory evacuation because nobody called."
"Ma'am...."
"Mandatory, Shmandatory, make him come down here or let me go up. I can name four other neighbors who have not left. Get them while you're at it Officer Mandatory."
At this point the girls have begun to panic and cry. "Are we leaving daddy? We can't leave daddy!"
I stare at the officer. "You get me, sir? Go save their father."
He turns to walk away from me and I try to turn up my street. He wheels back and knocks his fist on my window."
"Ma'am."
"Fuck you, I live here."
We are in a standoff. Which is silly, because I'm in a car, I would win.
Genoa and Harper are now in full hysterical mode"MOM!!!! We can't leave dad! Just do what he says!" They are clearly hysterical as they are giving me conflicting instructions.
I look at the girls, eyes soaked with tears, and say "Fine. We'll call daddy from Grammy's house. OK?"
As I turn around I consider, briefly, that I have a good shot at running over the officer.
I do not.
The fire burned 300 acres in August of 2008, and singed the porches of two of my neighbors. Jim never left the house. He was never told to leave: the phone never rang. And no officers ventured into the neighborhood, they just posted themselves at the street entrances to turn people away. If you were home, you didn't know you were under mandatory evacuation.We spent about an hour at my mom's before the evacuation was lifted. This is the evacuation they implemented after the fire had been burning for six hours.
This Monday there was a fire. November 2016. A Fire big enough to be seen from Denver. Hayden Park, part of Green Mountain, and to our south, had erupted in a brush fire about 4 pm.
It could be seen from Aurora.
We had no idea until Jim texted from Aurora as he was driving home, asking if we were on fire.
Nope, is there a fire? I stick my nose outside, I don't smell anything. We've had a few smaller fires in open space in the last month. Jim and I hiked up to find the burn marks. It's been a little dry lately.
I yell at Harp "Hey, is there anything on social media about a fire on Green Mountain?"
She gets on West Metro Fire and Rescue and starts following their twitter. I turn on the news.
Damn, that's a big fire. 100 acres. But it's a brush fire, so it's burning out once it burns what's in its path. No houses in danger, it's way up there on the mountain.
A West Metro Fire Truck comes up the street. Pauses at the entrance of open space. Turns back around.
After the fire in 2008 we know they ran drills up there, we watched them. Clearly they knew they were underprepared. Also, the Army is stomping around up there detonating WWII artillery, and GM Water is up to something, they've cleared a path and schlepped giant water pipes up to the water tank. Those trucks can get up there.
Harp announces that they've started evacuations, the map is all wonky. Clearly the fire is on the west side of the mountain, all the houses are on the east side, yet they're evacuating the streets behind us.
We walk up to the street behind us, because that's who we are.
On the way we note our neighbors hosing down their roof. They are on the roof in 20 degree weather, hosing it down. They're going to die.We smile and wave.
The police officer tells us we can't walk into open space. I almost laugh at her. I'm that dumb, Immmma take my family and dog on a nice freezing walk in 20 degree weather straight into a brush fire. She says they're evacuating and we are all on stand by. As we no longer have a landline, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to get this information other than to hike up the hill to the flashing red and blue bubbles and ask the young lady in the safety vest.
We are now able to smell it. The dog is freaking out.
Harp starts getting jumpy, reading the tweets out loud every time a street is put on evac.
I stand and look at her. "We have four cats and a dog and a guinea pig. Really?"
Jim, beer in hand, walks through our tableau "We're fine. I'm not leaving. It's fine."
Harp packs a bag and her dog. We are able to stuff a cat into a carrier. As Jim watches her wrestle the agitated ball of fur into the carrier he says "That is more dangerous than staying here."
So we send Harp, a cat and her dog to my mom's so she can relax and read the West Metro Tweets out loud at my mom's house.
Jim has begun to gather his guns downstairs. I don't ask.
We wander outside, there are neighbors in the street.
"Did you get a call?"
"Ya, are you leaving?"
"Well, I'm going to a hockey game, but I think Allison is going to leave."
"We did not leave the last time, but I think I will send the wife and kids down."
I look at this neighbor, then to my husband and say "You boys should play together more often."
My mom texts "We need a cat box...."
Didn't harp take it?
But she left the cat box behind.....because she took her bug and pretty much only she and Marty fit in it. There was an entire Commedia performance as we tried to get the guinea pig cage into her trunk.
It did not fit.
So I wrangle another cat into a box, and schlep the feline and the cat box down to mom's. I tell Jim "If they show up to run you off, the guinea pig goes in the shoe box by its cage and you'll have to catch the other two cats."
He shrugs, stacking ammo on guns. "I'll let them out. They'll be fine."
I married a Texan, in case you were wondering.
On the drive out, a young man, standing astride his patrol car, bubbles blazing, stops me.
"You headed out?"
I look at him. The cat has escaped from the box and is now on the dashboard. Does he need an answer, really? I say "No, " and he nods.
As I trundle down the hill, the cat slides off of the dashboard. Incensed, she begins a low, angry growl from somewhere near the passenger seat. I hear claws, and a minute later she's on top of the litter box in the back seat. But only after she has opened the back window. I neglected to engage the child locks.
I get to mom's and text from outside her house "Free range cat. Help."
The cats decide they are going to huddle together under an end table, facing one another, unmoving. Harp declares they are having face time.
Marty doesn't understand why my mom's dog doesn't want to be his friend.
Harp monitors West Metro as I watch Lost Boys and have a glass of wine.
About the time Lost Boys is over, Harp declares the evac is lifted.
Of course it is.
The fire burned 500 acres. It came nowhere near our house. Jim never left the house. We spent about an hour at my mom's house before the evacuation was lifted. An evacuation they implemented for a fire that was on the opposite side of the mountain from my house.
In 1988 there was either a tropical storm or a hurricane in Houston....
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Mostly Funny Summer Postcards
Sundown, my poor 13 year old black lab, who is mostly deaf and going blind, covered in tumors and walks regardless of possessing no ligaments in his back legs, no longer barks at the door bell. He now barks when nobody is at the door. Or when nobody is walking by. Or when the tone of my computer turning on goes "ding ding DING". Because he thinks that's the doorbell. But he still goes for walks and eats and plays, so the vet says there are no signs that he's ready to go yet. Sigh.
Steel Magnolias. Wow this town is small. "Annelle" was a student at Green Mtn while I subbed there 2002-2004. The set designer went to CU Denver with me. "M'Lynn's" husband is friends with the guy who has been hired to replace me at LHS. "M'lynn" studied with people who studied with Quintero.
PAA this summer, I have posted the fun NUT moments, but I still find myself giggling when I can see one of the squirrels smiling at me as he pretended to eat his styrofoam nut. I said "What are you doing? You cannot eat your nut." He said "She told me there was chocolate inside." To which I had to respond "No, dear, there is no chocolate inside your nut." The same kid got a chunk of nut in his eye and and to have his mom remove it.
The cultural switch from Highlands Ranch to Littleton High School was more than the team anticipated. Except me, I knew, those are going to my kids in 7 years. Ok, I will admit to being a little surprised at the difference. I didn't realize that Broadway north of C470 was a different planet than the south side. There was a huge learning curve, but a few funny/sad/funny moments did ensue.
* "Kevin" (all names have been changed to protect the goofy) was a shaggy, clearly intelligent little guy who took his time getting anywhere: to class, getting dressed, on stage, etc. He would take his time walking to class, sort of meandering along the hall. He knew the words and choreography but didn't always do them, he'd roll around. Once during notes I said "OK, Criss Cross Applesauce" which meant to Keven that he sat down, crossed his legs, and then rolled backwards, leaving his legs crossed. I said "Kevin?" and he said "Yes?" so I kept going, he was listening.
Sometimes he would exit, sometimes he would not. I told the cast that if they miss an entrance, they are NOT to run on stage late. Also worry about yourself, not anybody else. Just let it go. At the next rehearsal, Kevin decided that before the finale was over, he was going to dive into the wing and hide behind the bushes. Three other kids decided they needed to drag him back out again, completely disrupting everything on stage. So at notes I revised our "worry about yourself" policy to "Kevin is a safety hazard, you have to worry about where he is, BUT do not move him or drag him or anything, leave him alone but don't trip over him."
At our dress rehearsal, Kevin took off his costume half way through the song, and the other baby dinos appropriately ignored him. He then laid down on the stage. He was supposed to exit with his "mom" dino, but somehow she missed him, probably interpreting my "don't grab him" rant to include doing her job and herding him off. Realizing he had the whole stage to himself, he chose to commando crawl on his elbows to the wing. Slowly. With feeling. The music is on CD, so the scene change happens and the next song begins, with or without Kevin cleared from the stage. What was epic was that I could see his internal story on his face. He was definitely in a play, just not this one. And he was not a dinosaur. And it was hilarious and glorious, but I couldn't let anyone know that. So we had to revisit "If Kevin doesn't exit, keep going". I said "Kevin, do you understand you were supposed to exit with the moms?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
Shrug.
"Tonight is the show. Will you do it tonight?"
"Yes, my grandpa is coming. I don't want to do it wrong with my grandpa here."
Which he did, but not before taking his costume pants home and leaving them there. Because he had been told to put them in his costume bag, and he forgot. He also had no idea where he had left them at home. But he made his entrances and exits on time!
* "Chuckie", who did resemble the Rugrat in that he wore thick black glasses with one lens sort of fogged up, didn't talk much, but he was easily distracted. When we first did costumes, I took just the second graders, by themselves, to show them how to change into and out of trees and dinos. The boys all weirdly crammed into the boys bathroom, the girls were fine in the art room. Five minutes later, most of them had returned. After ten minutes, I sent another student in to find Chuckie.
The fetching student returned, a weird smile on his face that I did not want an explanation for . "He's coming" he giggled. Oh Joy. A few minutes later Chuckie emerges, his dance shoes are untied and have clearly been put on before his costume pants, as the pant legs are (they are leggings) stretched over his shoes. They are also inside out. "Chuckie, you're killing me. What took so long?"
" I can't tie my shoes."
"That's OK, buddy, just come out here and I'll do it."
I later pieced together that he had taken so long because he had tried to take his regular pants off before removing his shoes. Apparently he cannot untie them, either.
That night at costume call, one of the girls brings me leggings that have "Chuckie" clearly written in the band. She says "These aren't mine, I can't find mine, these were in my bag. " So I say "Go back to the girls dressing room and I'll figure it out." I wander the boys room, the girls room, the bathrooms, backstage and even ON stage saying "Chuckie? Chuckie?" while holding his pants out, fully expecting him to come running in his boxers. I finally locate him, in the wing, silently staring at me but not answering. He is wearing a pair of costume pants. I shake my head, return to the girl, hand her Chuckie's pants and say "These are yours now. Cool?"
* Banana Face. We'll call her Banana Face, we discovered during costume training that she does not and will not wear a second layer, and does not and will not care which room she disrobes in. She undressed the first day and stood in her unders asking loudly if there were any boys around who could see her? At performance we had to force her to change in the girls dressing room instead of backstage in front of everybody. She's seven. Standing next to the music director, waiting for her to put her shirt on so we can walk to the girls', which is taking her much too long and she's pivoting every which way to ensure she can be seen from any angle, I leaned over to him and whispered "Get her a pole".
He had to leave the room.
CUTENESS . There were 14 second graders (remember we started with 58 kids in this show) who were all Dino babies. They had a great costume piece made by props (shout out MEL), which was a headband with the "cracked" egg top, and a bib that fit over the front of their body. When they bent down, they were hiding behind an "egg", and then they would pop up and be hatched. UBER CUTE. But useless with 14 seven year olds who cannot sit still, or hold the bib steady, or manage to not try and see around the egg to watch the show, or "hatch" early to watch, or scratch an itch, or poke their neighbor,or take off the egg or or or or or.But the parents did not seem to care that the babies were ruining the show. The chorus of "awwwe" when they hatched told me we were fine.
CULTURAL. So we are holding 54 7-11 year olds in the art room, in full costume, awaiting places. It is taking a while, for some reason, so to keep them quiet we recommend story time. The kid who is the STUMP has filled this role before and proven that he can retell Star Wars and Jurassic park with great success. After he finishes Jurassic Park, we still have time, so one of the Hispanic girls raises her hand. She's usually really quiet but always participates, so sure! Tell us a story. She says "This is a story from Guatemala, a horror story." I stop and ask the kids if they're OK with a horror story. SURE. They think it's great. Ok, continue. The young lady tells a tale of "The Weeping Woman", who has murdered her children, and killed herself, and can be heard in the swamp in Guatemala to this day. She tells in in the cultural tradition, so there is no indicating that this is fiction anywhere in her tone or demeanor. One of the tinniest little blonde girls looks up at me with tears in her eyes and says "I'm scared. Is that real?" I said "It's story time, it's a story." The Storyteller begs to differ, as it's a legend passed down through generations in Guatemala. It's real, she says. Her abuela told her.
Two more girls start to freak out. I shoot the storyteller a look-not mean, just to let her know we need calm- and she nods sits down quietly. She's a great kid and I smile at her. This is not her fault.
I stop everything, and get silence. "Dudes, this is a cultural misunderstanding. In many cultures, they tell these stories through generations, they are legends. They are stories, folklore, passed down from grandparents. They are not the nightly news. I'm sorry if you weren't aware of this tradition, but now you are. So chill. " All the Mexican kids heads' are nodding hard, affirming that they all know such stories and want their turn, but I shake my head no. A few of the older girls stepped in and sat next to the scared little white kids to calm them down.
That I did not see coming.
And the FINAL GREAT STORY OF PAA AT LHS. On the last day we play games. I was the boss of Ghost in the Graveyard, pretty much a tag game. TAG. Meaning you get TAGGED by the ghost and you are running away from the ghost. I had Kevin's group, explained the rules, go! Kevin got tagged. Kevin burst into tears. We start another game while I assess any injuries, as is my job. Kevin manages between sobs to tell me " He tagged me, he touched me, it was mean! HE PUSHED ME."
"Kevin, he didn't push you, dude. I was right there. He tagged you. Do you understand "tag"?
He violently shakes his head no. "Do you have any plastic bags?"
"Are you hurt? Do you need an ice pack?"
"No, I'm hysterical. I need to breathe into a bag."
I stifle a laugh. "Not in a plastic bag, dear. You want paper but we don't have any. Just breathe with me."
Kevin then looks at the paper towel dispenser, pulls out three towels, folds them into a "bag" and begins breathing into it.
He's 7.
I can't.....
Steel Magnolias. Wigs are in, a few photos done and first off book rehearsal lived through. The set is going up really fast, my costume pieces are hilarious and I cannot believe how much fun it is to not be in charge.
Sundown the Aging Black Lab mostly lies here and pants. He has little patience for Marty, who persistently demands attention from me only when I'm petting Sundown. Sometimes Marty has these spaz attacks and he runs circles around the back yard, turning sharp corners at an unreasonably high speed. Sundown will watch for about two laps, attempt to catch him for a lap, and then resolve himself to just sitting in the middle, barking at Marty while he runs circles around him. If Marty gets sideways with one of the cats, Sundown will randomly side with the cat and woof at Marty. I am not sure if this is senility or if he really does not like Marty. My summer with dogs and cats and children.
Scene.
Steel Magnolias. Wow this town is small. "Annelle" was a student at Green Mtn while I subbed there 2002-2004. The set designer went to CU Denver with me. "M'Lynn's" husband is friends with the guy who has been hired to replace me at LHS. "M'lynn" studied with people who studied with Quintero.
PAA this summer, I have posted the fun NUT moments, but I still find myself giggling when I can see one of the squirrels smiling at me as he pretended to eat his styrofoam nut. I said "What are you doing? You cannot eat your nut." He said "She told me there was chocolate inside." To which I had to respond "No, dear, there is no chocolate inside your nut." The same kid got a chunk of nut in his eye and and to have his mom remove it.
The cultural switch from Highlands Ranch to Littleton High School was more than the team anticipated. Except me, I knew, those are going to my kids in 7 years. Ok, I will admit to being a little surprised at the difference. I didn't realize that Broadway north of C470 was a different planet than the south side. There was a huge learning curve, but a few funny/sad/funny moments did ensue.
* "Kevin" (all names have been changed to protect the goofy) was a shaggy, clearly intelligent little guy who took his time getting anywhere: to class, getting dressed, on stage, etc. He would take his time walking to class, sort of meandering along the hall. He knew the words and choreography but didn't always do them, he'd roll around. Once during notes I said "OK, Criss Cross Applesauce" which meant to Keven that he sat down, crossed his legs, and then rolled backwards, leaving his legs crossed. I said "Kevin?" and he said "Yes?" so I kept going, he was listening.
Sometimes he would exit, sometimes he would not. I told the cast that if they miss an entrance, they are NOT to run on stage late. Also worry about yourself, not anybody else. Just let it go. At the next rehearsal, Kevin decided that before the finale was over, he was going to dive into the wing and hide behind the bushes. Three other kids decided they needed to drag him back out again, completely disrupting everything on stage. So at notes I revised our "worry about yourself" policy to "Kevin is a safety hazard, you have to worry about where he is, BUT do not move him or drag him or anything, leave him alone but don't trip over him."
At our dress rehearsal, Kevin took off his costume half way through the song, and the other baby dinos appropriately ignored him. He then laid down on the stage. He was supposed to exit with his "mom" dino, but somehow she missed him, probably interpreting my "don't grab him" rant to include doing her job and herding him off. Realizing he had the whole stage to himself, he chose to commando crawl on his elbows to the wing. Slowly. With feeling. The music is on CD, so the scene change happens and the next song begins, with or without Kevin cleared from the stage. What was epic was that I could see his internal story on his face. He was definitely in a play, just not this one. And he was not a dinosaur. And it was hilarious and glorious, but I couldn't let anyone know that. So we had to revisit "If Kevin doesn't exit, keep going". I said "Kevin, do you understand you were supposed to exit with the moms?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
Shrug.
"Tonight is the show. Will you do it tonight?"
"Yes, my grandpa is coming. I don't want to do it wrong with my grandpa here."
Which he did, but not before taking his costume pants home and leaving them there. Because he had been told to put them in his costume bag, and he forgot. He also had no idea where he had left them at home. But he made his entrances and exits on time!
* "Chuckie", who did resemble the Rugrat in that he wore thick black glasses with one lens sort of fogged up, didn't talk much, but he was easily distracted. When we first did costumes, I took just the second graders, by themselves, to show them how to change into and out of trees and dinos. The boys all weirdly crammed into the boys bathroom, the girls were fine in the art room. Five minutes later, most of them had returned. After ten minutes, I sent another student in to find Chuckie.
The fetching student returned, a weird smile on his face that I did not want an explanation for . "He's coming" he giggled. Oh Joy. A few minutes later Chuckie emerges, his dance shoes are untied and have clearly been put on before his costume pants, as the pant legs are (they are leggings) stretched over his shoes. They are also inside out. "Chuckie, you're killing me. What took so long?"
" I can't tie my shoes."
"That's OK, buddy, just come out here and I'll do it."
I later pieced together that he had taken so long because he had tried to take his regular pants off before removing his shoes. Apparently he cannot untie them, either.
That night at costume call, one of the girls brings me leggings that have "Chuckie" clearly written in the band. She says "These aren't mine, I can't find mine, these were in my bag. " So I say "Go back to the girls dressing room and I'll figure it out." I wander the boys room, the girls room, the bathrooms, backstage and even ON stage saying "Chuckie? Chuckie?" while holding his pants out, fully expecting him to come running in his boxers. I finally locate him, in the wing, silently staring at me but not answering. He is wearing a pair of costume pants. I shake my head, return to the girl, hand her Chuckie's pants and say "These are yours now. Cool?"
* Banana Face. We'll call her Banana Face, we discovered during costume training that she does not and will not wear a second layer, and does not and will not care which room she disrobes in. She undressed the first day and stood in her unders asking loudly if there were any boys around who could see her? At performance we had to force her to change in the girls dressing room instead of backstage in front of everybody. She's seven. Standing next to the music director, waiting for her to put her shirt on so we can walk to the girls', which is taking her much too long and she's pivoting every which way to ensure she can be seen from any angle, I leaned over to him and whispered "Get her a pole".
He had to leave the room.
CUTENESS . There were 14 second graders (remember we started with 58 kids in this show) who were all Dino babies. They had a great costume piece made by props (shout out MEL), which was a headband with the "cracked" egg top, and a bib that fit over the front of their body. When they bent down, they were hiding behind an "egg", and then they would pop up and be hatched. UBER CUTE. But useless with 14 seven year olds who cannot sit still, or hold the bib steady, or manage to not try and see around the egg to watch the show, or "hatch" early to watch, or scratch an itch, or poke their neighbor,or take off the egg or or or or or.But the parents did not seem to care that the babies were ruining the show. The chorus of "awwwe" when they hatched told me we were fine.
CULTURAL. So we are holding 54 7-11 year olds in the art room, in full costume, awaiting places. It is taking a while, for some reason, so to keep them quiet we recommend story time. The kid who is the STUMP has filled this role before and proven that he can retell Star Wars and Jurassic park with great success. After he finishes Jurassic Park, we still have time, so one of the Hispanic girls raises her hand. She's usually really quiet but always participates, so sure! Tell us a story. She says "This is a story from Guatemala, a horror story." I stop and ask the kids if they're OK with a horror story. SURE. They think it's great. Ok, continue. The young lady tells a tale of "The Weeping Woman", who has murdered her children, and killed herself, and can be heard in the swamp in Guatemala to this day. She tells in in the cultural tradition, so there is no indicating that this is fiction anywhere in her tone or demeanor. One of the tinniest little blonde girls looks up at me with tears in her eyes and says "I'm scared. Is that real?" I said "It's story time, it's a story." The Storyteller begs to differ, as it's a legend passed down through generations in Guatemala. It's real, she says. Her abuela told her.
Two more girls start to freak out. I shoot the storyteller a look-not mean, just to let her know we need calm- and she nods sits down quietly. She's a great kid and I smile at her. This is not her fault.
I stop everything, and get silence. "Dudes, this is a cultural misunderstanding. In many cultures, they tell these stories through generations, they are legends. They are stories, folklore, passed down from grandparents. They are not the nightly news. I'm sorry if you weren't aware of this tradition, but now you are. So chill. " All the Mexican kids heads' are nodding hard, affirming that they all know such stories and want their turn, but I shake my head no. A few of the older girls stepped in and sat next to the scared little white kids to calm them down.
That I did not see coming.
And the FINAL GREAT STORY OF PAA AT LHS. On the last day we play games. I was the boss of Ghost in the Graveyard, pretty much a tag game. TAG. Meaning you get TAGGED by the ghost and you are running away from the ghost. I had Kevin's group, explained the rules, go! Kevin got tagged. Kevin burst into tears. We start another game while I assess any injuries, as is my job. Kevin manages between sobs to tell me " He tagged me, he touched me, it was mean! HE PUSHED ME."
"Kevin, he didn't push you, dude. I was right there. He tagged you. Do you understand "tag"?
He violently shakes his head no. "Do you have any plastic bags?"
"Are you hurt? Do you need an ice pack?"
"No, I'm hysterical. I need to breathe into a bag."
I stifle a laugh. "Not in a plastic bag, dear. You want paper but we don't have any. Just breathe with me."
Kevin then looks at the paper towel dispenser, pulls out three towels, folds them into a "bag" and begins breathing into it.
He's 7.
I can't.....
Steel Magnolias. Wigs are in, a few photos done and first off book rehearsal lived through. The set is going up really fast, my costume pieces are hilarious and I cannot believe how much fun it is to not be in charge.
Sundown the Aging Black Lab mostly lies here and pants. He has little patience for Marty, who persistently demands attention from me only when I'm petting Sundown. Sometimes Marty has these spaz attacks and he runs circles around the back yard, turning sharp corners at an unreasonably high speed. Sundown will watch for about two laps, attempt to catch him for a lap, and then resolve himself to just sitting in the middle, barking at Marty while he runs circles around him. If Marty gets sideways with one of the cats, Sundown will randomly side with the cat and woof at Marty. I am not sure if this is senility or if he really does not like Marty. My summer with dogs and cats and children.
Scene.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Community Theatre and Tiny Hands
I just completed my third show with "A Performing Arts Program". They work year round, but I only work a show in the summer. The first two years I directed the high school kids. This year I was AD on the "Big Show", which combines all ages from about 7 to 17. Oy Vey.
This is a melted crayon love letter to community theatre and this program.
When one of the the producers contacted me three years ago, I received an email from someone I had never heard of, working for an organization I had never heard of, asking if I'd be interested in directing a "JR" version of HAIRSPRAY for them. HAIRSPRAY is a musical.
I hate musicals. I Hate Musicals.
I like being in a musical, but since embarking on theatre teacher/director in high school, I have come to hate them. They are too much work for the pay off, we have no budget to do them well, and I don't really "direct" so much as "produce". So I do all the heavy lifting and math and shopping end up designing and building costumes ...and really the show is a choreographer and a music director.
But they were willing to pay me, so I agreed to meet with her.
She found her way to my office with the ease of someone who knew the school. Turns out she's an alum. The teacher I replaced had been her teacher.
Eric and I were slumped in my office (it was lunch, don't get excited) snarking when she arrived.
She was smiling. She was positive. She was kind. She was soft spoken and made eye contact. She addressed me with the respect and understanding of someone who does theatre.
She took me off guard.
She said "This is different than what you do here (at school), you won't have to produce. You show up with your coffee, teach two classes, rehearse and walk out the door." I was in.
Eric tried to slip out, but he got snagged when I introduced him and she said "Hey, we also need a choreographer for Aladdin...." Bam. Caught.
Three years later and I'm still working for these people. So is Eric. And the depths of the producer's kindness is unprecedented. How is she a producer and kind and supportive? I dunno, dude. I do not know. It helps that the Producer Producer who fundraises and founded the program is a performing arts guy. And the team are all performing arts teachers and professionals and they produce.... success. There is no negative. I don't sit at lunch and snark with Eric. (Even though I know when we are together we always look like we're snarking, because we both have Resting Bitch Face and we both hate people.) BUT, we do not, there is no real bad here. Sure they have issues but all of their issues stem from growing pains. They are blowing the doors off. There were 80 kids involved in this last show. They do no cut shows 'cause it's a camp.
"Everyone gets a spot in the chorus. Bring white shorts from home." --Tina Fey on her community theatre experience as a kid.
So some things I have learned from these people:
SUCCESS in theatre comes from the top. You can have all the talented people in the world, but if you micromanage them or get in their way or have an agenda that is inconsistent with performing arts benefitting kids, your program is going to fail. This group never loses sight of their objective: to encourage growth in kids through performing arts. Hire talented people, and then get out of their way. Lorne Michaels and Tiny Fey can attest to that.
PUT YOUR MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS. If you want talented people, you need to pay them. Most teacher/performer types are used to scraping by, and will happily be a part of something wonderful for no money. However, they can't stay, because eventually they need insurance, or to make their car payment. Want them to stay? Pay them.
TEAMS MATTER. You need a team that has mutual respect for one another, who believe in the mission of the program, and who respect and are respected by the producing entities.
IT TAKES AN ARTIST TO UNDERSTAND ART. Failure is imminent if anyone at the top with power has no idea how theatre works. This is why public school programs fail. It's not the teachers, I promise. They know their job and how to get results, they just cannot prove it on a standardized test.
IT TAKES AN ARTIST TO UNDERSTAND ARTISTS. This goes to putting the teams together. Performing arts teachers are all over the place with their personalities, but ultimately many of us are truly introverts who have found performing arts as a way to express ourselves. If you are not a fellow artist, you do not know that, and you frequently misinterpret and misunderstand our responses to everything.
YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE ANGRY TO PRODUCE. You can be supportive and kind. J is a great producer, kind, supportive, and crazy hard working, because she believes in the program and she loves theatre.
BUY ARTISTS FOOD AND ALCOHOL AFTER THE SHOW AND THEY WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. This needs no explanation.
All of these elements that create the perfect storm could be because this group has the freedom to do the right thing by being attached to a church, who just want people to grow up and be nice to each other. Not a school that is wound up about grades and rubrics and core subjects. I find it interesting that this program, while through a church, does not feel very church-y. Nobody's forced to pray or memorize bible verses. They just meet at the beginning and end of each day to reflect on a phrase or idea like "respect" or "kindness", which sadly are addressed only because this is associated with a church. Why isn't this model followed everywhere? It's like when the girls were little and we loved Veggie Tales and I had parents tell me they didn't want any part of it because they were athiests or agnostic or whatever. They'd never watched a single episode, otherwise they would have understood that a tomato and a cucumber were not trying to convert their children. They simply encouraged them to become better people through kindness, patience, humility and rockin' Cheeseburger songs.
I have come into the program every summer for the last three years completely drained. Negative, damaged, defensive, ready to give up. I leave the program, every summer, renewed and wishing this was my real job.
They put up full shows in two weeks. Full Shows. Sometimes it's a high school aged JR with a youngers JR the same two weeks. Sometimes it's a full show with all ages. Sometimes it's the littles doing Jungle Book or Frog and Toad. I can barely get a full musical up in five weeks at the high school, dude, and they do it in two. The different ages come together for warmup, lunch and closing and they get to know one another.
It's a camp, the kids are there from 9am-4 for two weeks. They bring their lunch, take dance, music and acting classes with rehearsals interspersed. It's brilliant. There is a TD who trains the tech kids and they actually build a set on site. They use the church and other high school stages, or an elementary for the littles, which makes it even more of a challenge. But they do it. Every time. For ten years. Bam.
And it's stressful, but it's enjoyable. Everybody does their job. The kids are fully invested. The staff is without ego or need to prove anything to anybody. Nobody misses rehearsal because they have a club meeting, or they have a test or some other more important thing to do. They are there to do a show, and that's it. This is an aspect that I struggle with when I return to my regular job in the fall. I get spoiled over the summer with all of that support from the top and all of those kids 100% invested in the show, and the show only.
And then I'm grumpy again.
One of the music directors bought us all tiny hands based on an inside joke. We all rejoiced and found uses for our tiny, plastic hands. Eric chose to congratulate the kids by shaking hands with them, which freaked a few out and was glorious. The director bought me coffee. The kids made Golden Tickets (The show was Willy Wonka, oops, secret it out) for all the artistic team. I received cards and candy and thank you notes from kids and parents alike. The support and love took me so off guard that I had no idea I was expected to be on stage after curtain call to receive gifts with the team. I was actually stunned. If you didn't know me you'd think I was stoned, it was that bad. Wait: 80 grateful kids and a house of grateful parents, all on their feet? Pinch me.
This is why every spring I anxiously await the arrival of my HELLO SIGN contract from PAA. I cannot believe I am so lucky. I do not deserve this.
But by God, I'm going to keep doing it. I LOVE THESE PEOPLE. I even agreed to direct Dinos Before Dark with grades 2-6. This is not my comfort zone, I don't really "get" this age group. But Wonka prepared me, and we will be on my "home" base at my HS (I may have had something to do with that). And I am so excited! It will be the best Dinos Before Dark these people have ever seen. Because I want to be there, I love doing it and every single kid is invested.
And I'm supported by the Producers, who believe that I have the kids' best interest in mind, and trust me. That makes a huge difference, my friends.
AND IN CONCLUSION ALL IN ALL TO SUM UP: I was the boss of the squirrels backstage. They had tails that needed to be pinned to their shirts and styrofoam nuts that had to be wrangled. Here is the final compilation of things I, Kryssi Martin, Theatre Professional, had to say to children.
"Do not pick at your nuts."
"Don't trade nuts, that one is yours, you have to keep it, even if it's broken."
Me:"Come here, Miss Trish will hot glue your nut." Miss Trish: "This is not in my contract."
"No, your nut does not have chocolate in the middle."
"Do not eat your nuts."
"Do not pull at the top of your nut. Hold your nut like a precious jewel."
"Hold your nut with both hands."
"Did you get a chunk of your nut in your eye?" (after which his mom had to fish it out. How Embarrassing)
"Keep your nut with you. We can't have nuts just rolling around everywhere."
"How do you know that isn't your nut? They all look the same."
"Don't drop your nuts."
"Thank you for knowing where the white nuts go."
NOTE: I refrained from any obvious jokes about the squirrels each having only one nut, and their choreographer, Eric, having only one nut. That would have been inappropriate. Which is why I saved it for here.
MY TINY HANDS WRITING A THANK YOU NOTE!
Friday, June 17, 2016
Anxiety, neighbors, Durango, Anxiety, 2000 words go
The last few weeks I have been writing 2000 words a day. Today I decided to post one, this is the inside of my head.
I'm on the deck, it's 9.19 am, a little late for me to be out writing, but I did some yoga first. Now I'm in my spot until the sun blocks my screen, watching the neighbor's stories. This morning routine of 2000 words can be a challenge. There's always a stupid cat that wants out, a dog that drank all his water, anxiety, blah blah blah Across the street, beginning yesterday morning, my neighbors and all of their company---it appears they are family, grandmas and grandpas and aunts I guess--began schlepping wagons of ice and freezer type food across the street to Lin and Betty's house (next to mine, the one with the retaining wall). I thought I heard one say something about the fridge going out, but then a UHaul trailer appeared, and now it looks like they are actually moving stuff out of their garage. I feel like Gladys on Bewitched.
I chatted with Betty the evening before last, she is adjusting to dentures and has a nasty cold she can't shake. She stepped out from behind her fence to show me she'd lost so much weight that her pants are falling off of her. She was sick a lot this winter as well. They have their yearly family reunion in Texas coming up next week, and they always drive. Every year I question how smart of a choice that is in their Buick or towncar or whatever that old boat is, but Betty says she'll never fly. "It takes just as long to get through our airport and then the one in Dallas." Fair. These neighbors are a joy. They've had a rough road, but are always kind and ask about Genoa and Harper. Their grand son Atticus has been friends with the girls since they were 3,4 and 5. Harp still hangs out with Atty.
She's at work at Starbucks right now, her third training shift. She gets to work the drive through today. When we get back from Durango and she has her schedule, she's going back to Mad Greens (she calls it Sad Greens) to work hours there as well. They'll hire her back for a few weeks, then promote her to shift lead at $13 an hour. My daughter is a money monster, and that beats $10 at Starbucks. She labors under the delusion that she will work two jobs, but I can't imagine it working out, as she has a third job filling in as a nanny. That's an entire story unto itself, and has already been written.
Okay, everyone in my neighborhood has a dog, and they all walk them from 7 am -10 am, bullying and taunting me because I walk my old dog only to the speed bump and back, and the other dog isn't my problem.
Writing I had hoped would alleviate some of my anxiety. I also started reading this book, One Minute Mindfulness which is somewhat helpful. Not as helpful as scrubbing every floor and floorboard in my house, but you have to try many things. Anxiety is not a joke, and at my age I cannot afford it any more, I'm going to give myself a stroke. And it's exhausting. I haven't slept well but one night this summer, and that is ridiculous. It's SUMMER. I start Willly Wonka on Monday, and I tried to get the house scrubbed before that began.
Harp and I are going down to Durango tonight, we'll spend Saturday with G and come back Sunday morning. Jim wants to see Finding Dory for father's day, and I don't want to drive in the heat, so we'll head out around 6 I guess. Earlier if I can pour H into the car. I only love road trips in the early mornings. I don't mind early evenings, but after the sun goes down I get jumpy, I didn't used to, Jim and I drove to and from Houston through the night, and when the girls were little we drove to California. At that time my anxiety was Death Valley--valid. Guess I have always had it, it's just really increased exponentially the last few years.
I get anxious every time we go to Durango. The first visit we didn't even make it there, I freaked out in Ouray and we came home the next morning. That was without Jim, he suddenly couldn't go on the only family trip we could make work that summer, and I agreed to take the girls. But we got there and there is something deeply wrong with Ouray, and the hotel floors were uneven and there were shadows in the mirror and nope. So it wasn't until two years later that we made it to Mesa Verde--- Jim's bucket list---and we drove around the outside of the campus, and G was not impressed.. Then a year later we went out to visit Ft. Lewis and she met Dennis- he runs the theatre- and that was it. She was sold. And that trip I had a full on freak out, I worry about the pass, I hate the pass, I hate being on the "wrong side" of any pass in Colorado. I do the same thing in Steamboat. I thought it was the altitude, since anxiety can be physical, high heart rate, etc---but I don't think that's it in Durango. Also that doesn't explain why I start to panic before we go.
This one started yesterday.
So my stomach hurts,and I feel dizzy, and I can't breathe and it's great. It's AWESOME.
10.23
So I got bullied into walking the dogs. It's already hot, and they're black so we only went to the water tank. We were behind an elderly couple who seem to be part of the across the street gathering, he has one of those one armed/crutch/metal things and he was moving uphill at a lovely pace. At the water tank, Sundown broke away--to the extent that he can "break away", more like "hobbled"---and their dog became a bit aggressive. They were kind, he has gap teeth and both are definitely Aussie. I swear the dad does not have an accent, but last year on the fourth they had friends over, and the guy I chatted with had an aussie accent. They are loading up, this is a caravan of some kind. I'm having Walking Dead anxiety, do they know something I do not. There is a truck with a UHaul trailer pulled behind it, a minivan and a hatchback car loaded up with coolers. How many people and how far are they going? I'll ask Allison, she lives next door and I think she went to college with the mom. She knows everything in the neighborhood....DANG, she's in Chicago.I'm left to my own snooping.
Well, the good news is the walk has quelled my anxiety attack.
I'm just too old any more, I don't want to leave home but I'm grumpy because we never get to take a real vacation and leave home. Ok, last year we went to Florida, that was great. But it was only a week, I don't know if we've ever taken a vacation longer than a week. What's that like? Leave your house for two weeks? OH, I had an anxiety attack in St. Augustine as well, so....not related to higher elevations. Science. I'm all about it.
We went to NASA while in Fla, of course, why wouldn't you, and I cried the whole time. It was like visiting a gravesite, a monument to Things We Used To Do That Were Cool. The Atlantis, the production values, the old guy sitting on his folding chair with a sign that said "Engineer" and which missions he worked. I wanted to talk to him but I don't speak engineer, so I just shook his hand and thanked him. The visit made Genoa think she wanted to change majors---she investigated, discovered math, then decided she could design the next phase of space suit. Harp was duly impressed and expressed interest in learning more about space stuff, but has no interest in the math necessary for space travel. Also, we don't do it any more here in America, so there's that.
When G chose Ft. Lewis I was already in the throes of College Panic Attack, as she had been accepted into OCU and the costumer had started calling to confirm that she was coming so she could assign her shows. The cost--even with the scholarships---was giving me heart palpitations, even though loans are a thing and more scholarship $ was coming. Then she met Dennis and it was over, even though Ft. Lewis is not a "theatre" school, she didn't care. She liked Dennis, she felt comfortable in their tiny theatre and wanted to get a minor in biology. Which she dropped when it was between bio and a trip to Dublin, so there you have that. But it worked out, even though she is declared as a Design and Tech major, she was nominated for the Irene Ryan for her acting in The Little Prince. And she's going to Dublin and London in July---originally they were doing Barcelona as well, I hope they do. It's a collaborative performance class, so they've created a piece to perform at universities over there. I feel like it's a sort of college Fringe Festival. Between now and her departure I get to worry about getting her a credit card, a cell phone plan, her losing her passport or getting her money stolen...she's Genoa, there is much to worry about. But I don't know why, she's doing great. She got an apartment for the summer, works two jobs--- well, until last night when she quit Pizza Hut for sexual harassment. But she'll get another second job and she'll be fine. She doesn't really need me to worry, but what else am I going to do? I have two gifts: theatre and worrying.
And one of those has been cut off for next year, since I'm not directing at LHS. That's another source of delightful anxiety.
The younger "aunt" and her young daughter have taken off, cooler secured in the front seat. The elderly couple are loading the mini van. I love road trips, I really do miss them. This looks awesome, how come we don't do this any more? Harp and I are going to Durango to see G for one day, that's not very road trippy. It'll be fun to get out, and I wish Jim was coming, but it's not like this event I'm watching. Allison drives to Chicago every summer. Our old neighbor drove to Florida for the summer. We just don't have anywhere to drive to I guess. The dad is checking the brake lights on the trailer, I don't know where the two girls who live there have gone to. They were in the front yard in their jammies a minute ago. I see only adults in the truck and minivan. I think mom is taking them in the family car? She just asked an empty front yard if anyone had to go to the bathroom. Wow. This is impressive. Of course in Colorado I'm used to RV's and trucks and SUV's with Thule rocket boxes and bike racks. We used to be those people.
Back when we rented our cars, we had a Tahoe I loved, and then a Suburban that I did not. But that Suburban had a Thule on top, a bike rack on the back, and occasionally pulled a pop up camper. That was us, headed to Turquoise Lake and the Molly Brown Campground---where you have to reserve your spot a year ahead of time. Well, then it was a year, that was 10-12 years ago before everybody bloody moved here, now I bet it's impossible to get a spot two years ahead. I loved that lake.
OH, Shuffly Boy with the German Shepard is walking late today. Dude, it's hot. He walks the dog twice day and I have no idea where he lives. Maybe behind us. But he's a kid, so he shuffles, he doesn't pick up his feet, so you can hear him coming. He's really late, it's 11. HA, I hear Nathan Lane's voice "Gotta run, it's almost eleven!"
WC 2040,
Not bad, although I did break for a walk. Weds I did a 640 word character analysis as part of my routine,. Yesterday I edited and beefed up the "After School Theatre" outline for the guy they hired. I didn't do a word count, though, but it counts, there were words.
The UHaul and truck have left, mom is moving the smaller car into the driveway, and I guess the children are loaded into the mini van? I didn't ser them, but she's talking to someone. I think Grandma and Grandpa are in there too. Big mini van.
I promised myself I'd cross something off the list today, I should probs go in. I need to buy paint to finish the spare room, and I'm saving my pennies for Durango. I'll do that after Willy Wonka, or next weekend. Today I have to dig out CD's for the trip, Jim's Honda is so old we can't listen to the iphone. OOOOH, CD's! Harp has some sort of small speaker arrangement that we can kinda use, I think.
I'm on the deck, it's 9.19 am, a little late for me to be out writing, but I did some yoga first. Now I'm in my spot until the sun blocks my screen, watching the neighbor's stories. This morning routine of 2000 words can be a challenge. There's always a stupid cat that wants out, a dog that drank all his water, anxiety, blah blah blah Across the street, beginning yesterday morning, my neighbors and all of their company---it appears they are family, grandmas and grandpas and aunts I guess--began schlepping wagons of ice and freezer type food across the street to Lin and Betty's house (next to mine, the one with the retaining wall). I thought I heard one say something about the fridge going out, but then a UHaul trailer appeared, and now it looks like they are actually moving stuff out of their garage. I feel like Gladys on Bewitched.
I chatted with Betty the evening before last, she is adjusting to dentures and has a nasty cold she can't shake. She stepped out from behind her fence to show me she'd lost so much weight that her pants are falling off of her. She was sick a lot this winter as well. They have their yearly family reunion in Texas coming up next week, and they always drive. Every year I question how smart of a choice that is in their Buick or towncar or whatever that old boat is, but Betty says she'll never fly. "It takes just as long to get through our airport and then the one in Dallas." Fair. These neighbors are a joy. They've had a rough road, but are always kind and ask about Genoa and Harper. Their grand son Atticus has been friends with the girls since they were 3,4 and 5. Harp still hangs out with Atty.
She's at work at Starbucks right now, her third training shift. She gets to work the drive through today. When we get back from Durango and she has her schedule, she's going back to Mad Greens (she calls it Sad Greens) to work hours there as well. They'll hire her back for a few weeks, then promote her to shift lead at $13 an hour. My daughter is a money monster, and that beats $10 at Starbucks. She labors under the delusion that she will work two jobs, but I can't imagine it working out, as she has a third job filling in as a nanny. That's an entire story unto itself, and has already been written.
Okay, everyone in my neighborhood has a dog, and they all walk them from 7 am -10 am, bullying and taunting me because I walk my old dog only to the speed bump and back, and the other dog isn't my problem.
Writing I had hoped would alleviate some of my anxiety. I also started reading this book, One Minute Mindfulness which is somewhat helpful. Not as helpful as scrubbing every floor and floorboard in my house, but you have to try many things. Anxiety is not a joke, and at my age I cannot afford it any more, I'm going to give myself a stroke. And it's exhausting. I haven't slept well but one night this summer, and that is ridiculous. It's SUMMER. I start Willly Wonka on Monday, and I tried to get the house scrubbed before that began.
Harp and I are going down to Durango tonight, we'll spend Saturday with G and come back Sunday morning. Jim wants to see Finding Dory for father's day, and I don't want to drive in the heat, so we'll head out around 6 I guess. Earlier if I can pour H into the car. I only love road trips in the early mornings. I don't mind early evenings, but after the sun goes down I get jumpy, I didn't used to, Jim and I drove to and from Houston through the night, and when the girls were little we drove to California. At that time my anxiety was Death Valley--valid. Guess I have always had it, it's just really increased exponentially the last few years.
I get anxious every time we go to Durango. The first visit we didn't even make it there, I freaked out in Ouray and we came home the next morning. That was without Jim, he suddenly couldn't go on the only family trip we could make work that summer, and I agreed to take the girls. But we got there and there is something deeply wrong with Ouray, and the hotel floors were uneven and there were shadows in the mirror and nope. So it wasn't until two years later that we made it to Mesa Verde--- Jim's bucket list---and we drove around the outside of the campus, and G was not impressed.. Then a year later we went out to visit Ft. Lewis and she met Dennis- he runs the theatre- and that was it. She was sold. And that trip I had a full on freak out, I worry about the pass, I hate the pass, I hate being on the "wrong side" of any pass in Colorado. I do the same thing in Steamboat. I thought it was the altitude, since anxiety can be physical, high heart rate, etc---but I don't think that's it in Durango. Also that doesn't explain why I start to panic before we go.
This one started yesterday.
So my stomach hurts,and I feel dizzy, and I can't breathe and it's great. It's AWESOME.
10.23
So I got bullied into walking the dogs. It's already hot, and they're black so we only went to the water tank. We were behind an elderly couple who seem to be part of the across the street gathering, he has one of those one armed/crutch/metal things and he was moving uphill at a lovely pace. At the water tank, Sundown broke away--to the extent that he can "break away", more like "hobbled"---and their dog became a bit aggressive. They were kind, he has gap teeth and both are definitely Aussie. I swear the dad does not have an accent, but last year on the fourth they had friends over, and the guy I chatted with had an aussie accent. They are loading up, this is a caravan of some kind. I'm having Walking Dead anxiety, do they know something I do not. There is a truck with a UHaul trailer pulled behind it, a minivan and a hatchback car loaded up with coolers. How many people and how far are they going? I'll ask Allison, she lives next door and I think she went to college with the mom. She knows everything in the neighborhood....DANG, she's in Chicago.I'm left to my own snooping.
Well, the good news is the walk has quelled my anxiety attack.
I'm just too old any more, I don't want to leave home but I'm grumpy because we never get to take a real vacation and leave home. Ok, last year we went to Florida, that was great. But it was only a week, I don't know if we've ever taken a vacation longer than a week. What's that like? Leave your house for two weeks? OH, I had an anxiety attack in St. Augustine as well, so....not related to higher elevations. Science. I'm all about it.
We went to NASA while in Fla, of course, why wouldn't you, and I cried the whole time. It was like visiting a gravesite, a monument to Things We Used To Do That Were Cool. The Atlantis, the production values, the old guy sitting on his folding chair with a sign that said "Engineer" and which missions he worked. I wanted to talk to him but I don't speak engineer, so I just shook his hand and thanked him. The visit made Genoa think she wanted to change majors---she investigated, discovered math, then decided she could design the next phase of space suit. Harp was duly impressed and expressed interest in learning more about space stuff, but has no interest in the math necessary for space travel. Also, we don't do it any more here in America, so there's that.
When G chose Ft. Lewis I was already in the throes of College Panic Attack, as she had been accepted into OCU and the costumer had started calling to confirm that she was coming so she could assign her shows. The cost--even with the scholarships---was giving me heart palpitations, even though loans are a thing and more scholarship $ was coming. Then she met Dennis and it was over, even though Ft. Lewis is not a "theatre" school, she didn't care. She liked Dennis, she felt comfortable in their tiny theatre and wanted to get a minor in biology. Which she dropped when it was between bio and a trip to Dublin, so there you have that. But it worked out, even though she is declared as a Design and Tech major, she was nominated for the Irene Ryan for her acting in The Little Prince. And she's going to Dublin and London in July---originally they were doing Barcelona as well, I hope they do. It's a collaborative performance class, so they've created a piece to perform at universities over there. I feel like it's a sort of college Fringe Festival. Between now and her departure I get to worry about getting her a credit card, a cell phone plan, her losing her passport or getting her money stolen...she's Genoa, there is much to worry about. But I don't know why, she's doing great. She got an apartment for the summer, works two jobs--- well, until last night when she quit Pizza Hut for sexual harassment. But she'll get another second job and she'll be fine. She doesn't really need me to worry, but what else am I going to do? I have two gifts: theatre and worrying.
And one of those has been cut off for next year, since I'm not directing at LHS. That's another source of delightful anxiety.
The younger "aunt" and her young daughter have taken off, cooler secured in the front seat. The elderly couple are loading the mini van. I love road trips, I really do miss them. This looks awesome, how come we don't do this any more? Harp and I are going to Durango to see G for one day, that's not very road trippy. It'll be fun to get out, and I wish Jim was coming, but it's not like this event I'm watching. Allison drives to Chicago every summer. Our old neighbor drove to Florida for the summer. We just don't have anywhere to drive to I guess. The dad is checking the brake lights on the trailer, I don't know where the two girls who live there have gone to. They were in the front yard in their jammies a minute ago. I see only adults in the truck and minivan. I think mom is taking them in the family car? She just asked an empty front yard if anyone had to go to the bathroom. Wow. This is impressive. Of course in Colorado I'm used to RV's and trucks and SUV's with Thule rocket boxes and bike racks. We used to be those people.
Back when we rented our cars, we had a Tahoe I loved, and then a Suburban that I did not. But that Suburban had a Thule on top, a bike rack on the back, and occasionally pulled a pop up camper. That was us, headed to Turquoise Lake and the Molly Brown Campground---where you have to reserve your spot a year ahead of time. Well, then it was a year, that was 10-12 years ago before everybody bloody moved here, now I bet it's impossible to get a spot two years ahead. I loved that lake.
OH, Shuffly Boy with the German Shepard is walking late today. Dude, it's hot. He walks the dog twice day and I have no idea where he lives. Maybe behind us. But he's a kid, so he shuffles, he doesn't pick up his feet, so you can hear him coming. He's really late, it's 11. HA, I hear Nathan Lane's voice "Gotta run, it's almost eleven!"
WC 2040,
Not bad, although I did break for a walk. Weds I did a 640 word character analysis as part of my routine,. Yesterday I edited and beefed up the "After School Theatre" outline for the guy they hired. I didn't do a word count, though, but it counts, there were words.
The UHaul and truck have left, mom is moving the smaller car into the driveway, and I guess the children are loaded into the mini van? I didn't ser them, but she's talking to someone. I think Grandma and Grandpa are in there too. Big mini van.
I promised myself I'd cross something off the list today, I should probs go in. I need to buy paint to finish the spare room, and I'm saving my pennies for Durango. I'll do that after Willy Wonka, or next weekend. Today I have to dig out CD's for the trip, Jim's Honda is so old we can't listen to the iphone. OOOOH, CD's! Harp has some sort of small speaker arrangement that we can kinda use, I think.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
SECOND AUDITION: THE HELL AGAIN?
10 am
Uta Hagen has a book An Actor Prepares. I have a blog An Actor Neurotics. I read the script again, first time in thirty years. Watched the movie again. Again, was grumpy at how different the two are. There are no men in the play except to be discussed and alluded to. I have never loved this script, I feel like the women are stereotypes and they speak in platitudes. It was written by a man, and I don't like any man's female characters except Edward Albee. His women I understand. Steel Magnolias seems to be an extended stereotype intended to make women cry for monetary gain (ticket sales). It works, don't get me wrong, but it's transparent. And I'm judgy.
The men in the play are referred to as couch potatoes and neanderthals. Largely useless, beer drinking entities who do not help out at all. But when they made the movie they cast Tom Skerritt and Sam Shepard and well....they aren't going to play that now, are they? So the movie skews away from the man bashing in the original script quite a bit, allowing these sympathetic, and hard working husbands to emerge---albeit quietly. They aren't given a lot of lines. And that softens the blow a bit, and frankly gives the story a bit more balance.
Just my opinion.
The stereotype, however, is part of what makes it fun. Ouiser is a bitter old southern woman, the end. No need to dig too deeply. Truvy is pretty. Clairee is dignified. M'lynn is a mom. Shelby is an ornery child trying to live her own life but is ultimately a moron. Annelle is a "survivor", pulling herself up after the criminal husband leaves her. And Scene. They all hang out in a beauty shop and gossip about the town. Because that's what women do, apparently. It's really a play about drag queens, let's be honest. I volunteer to direct that version!
I used to feel the same way about Crimes of the Heart, until recently. I looped it into my Acting 1 class and got some really nice work out of the girls. Turns out there's more there than meets the eye when you work on it. Maybe that's my problem with Steel Magnolias, I just don't understand it.
I don't need to understand it or even like it to want to be in it. I can't explain why, it'd just be fun to act again.
So I had to drag out a monologue. Everything I have no longer works for anyone over 30, except for Aunt Maddy which is 10 minutes long. Not an audition monologue. So I pulled an old one from Soap Dish, as it can work with a southern dialect and it's short, and "ageless". It'll be fine.
I looked up the map, the theatre is 28 minutes from my house. Armed with this information I will still arrive 30 minutes early and end up sitting in the parking lot, texting Eric.
If callbacks are tomorrow or Monday, I can't go, I have auditions for Willy Wonka. There is no callback time listed on the audition notice.
I had a terrible nightmare last night, in it the person they hired to replace me as director took over my entire office and let choir kids hang out all the time. It was awful. So I didn't get a great night of sleep, which is good. I look older.
My lower back/hip has been seizing for a week, I overdid it last Saturday at the gym, so I walk with one hand on my back. I also tore up my pinkie toe breaking in shoes, so I limp. Again: good for age. :)
I look down at my hands. I have 4 remaining long fake nails from my last manicure adventure with Harper, three weeks ago. The other 6 have been broken off and hacked at. Another mess that is so me. So I clip two of the nails down and leave the longer thumb nails for balance. If they notice my nails, I've failed anyway, dunno why I bother. It's something to do I suppose.
I have nothing to wear. I coach "Don't dress for a role, dress nicely. Not prom nice, just church nice." I stand in my closet looking at the hodge podge of hand me downs and funky pants and maxi skirts and realize I don't have "church clothes". So do I go for it as me, since I already am Ouiser, or try to find neutral pieces to cobble together, that may look worse than just committing to poor taste. Or Nathan Lane? I can do Nathan Lane pretty easily. Dear God I cannot even dress myself.
Just messaged Eric, he recommends the heart ruffle shirt my mother in law gave me. I always get compliments from older women when I wear it, good call.
Jim made breakfast, I guess I'll go shower?
_______________________________________________
In the shower I realize it's a rant, not a monologue. I can alter my Carrie Fischer Postcards From the Edge in a way that it still works. I'll do that.
__________________________________________________
I arrive 30 minutes early. I text Eric about the tattooed young lady having a cigarette outside the theatre--which is in a strip mall that also contains other businesses. We decide she's the stage manager. An orange mini arrives, and a disheveled man carrying a pile of papers (clearly scripts), a brown to go bag, what looks like mike stands and his car keys in his mouth, stumbles to the theatre. He returns moments later, moves his car around the block, returns and parks in the same spot, emerges with more papers. He returns to his car a third time to retrieve something I cannot identify before it's time for me to go in.
I have identified the director!
The young lady, however, turns out to be an employee at another shop in the strip mall.
___________________________________________________________
I have been the wrong age my entire career.
In my 20's I read older, and rarely was considered because actors who were actually 30 were better than me. Then I took a decade plus off to be a mom and a teacher. Landing me here, a young looking 50, and still the wrong age.
The callback went well. Again, Nice People! And I nailed reading for both Ouiser and Clairee. He has a definite type in mind for the other roles that I do not fit, and that's fine. I would have liked to read for M'lynn but it was clear he had a specific type in mind.
It was a joy to sit there as an actor and watch the proceedings without my judgey director hat.
I had the best time! I got to be an old southern grumpy and he read enough scenes for me to be funny physically, create a character, nail the meter in the text,and cry! I got to CRY I never get to cry! He was auditioning M'lynn's, you know "My daughter can't run to Texas....why is she dead..." and all I had to do was control my crying until Clairree shoved me down front "Hit her!"
IT WAS THE BEST ABSOLUTELY THE BEST MOMENT!!!
'cause I was actually crying, so I had to say "are you high" through tears and anger and surprise and WHO EVER GETS TO DO THAT?
Dang I MISS ACTING!
They have more auditions tomorrow, and I'm confident that I am too young to get cast. But I had such a great time, I'm going to look up more auditions tonight and go to another one.
I get it now! 20 years too late but still, I GET IT!
Uta Hagen has a book An Actor Prepares. I have a blog An Actor Neurotics. I read the script again, first time in thirty years. Watched the movie again. Again, was grumpy at how different the two are. There are no men in the play except to be discussed and alluded to. I have never loved this script, I feel like the women are stereotypes and they speak in platitudes. It was written by a man, and I don't like any man's female characters except Edward Albee. His women I understand. Steel Magnolias seems to be an extended stereotype intended to make women cry for monetary gain (ticket sales). It works, don't get me wrong, but it's transparent. And I'm judgy.
The men in the play are referred to as couch potatoes and neanderthals. Largely useless, beer drinking entities who do not help out at all. But when they made the movie they cast Tom Skerritt and Sam Shepard and well....they aren't going to play that now, are they? So the movie skews away from the man bashing in the original script quite a bit, allowing these sympathetic, and hard working husbands to emerge---albeit quietly. They aren't given a lot of lines. And that softens the blow a bit, and frankly gives the story a bit more balance.
Just my opinion.
The stereotype, however, is part of what makes it fun. Ouiser is a bitter old southern woman, the end. No need to dig too deeply. Truvy is pretty. Clairee is dignified. M'lynn is a mom. Shelby is an ornery child trying to live her own life but is ultimately a moron. Annelle is a "survivor", pulling herself up after the criminal husband leaves her. And Scene. They all hang out in a beauty shop and gossip about the town. Because that's what women do, apparently. It's really a play about drag queens, let's be honest. I volunteer to direct that version!
I used to feel the same way about Crimes of the Heart, until recently. I looped it into my Acting 1 class and got some really nice work out of the girls. Turns out there's more there than meets the eye when you work on it. Maybe that's my problem with Steel Magnolias, I just don't understand it.
I don't need to understand it or even like it to want to be in it. I can't explain why, it'd just be fun to act again.
So I had to drag out a monologue. Everything I have no longer works for anyone over 30, except for Aunt Maddy which is 10 minutes long. Not an audition monologue. So I pulled an old one from Soap Dish, as it can work with a southern dialect and it's short, and "ageless". It'll be fine.
I looked up the map, the theatre is 28 minutes from my house. Armed with this information I will still arrive 30 minutes early and end up sitting in the parking lot, texting Eric.
If callbacks are tomorrow or Monday, I can't go, I have auditions for Willy Wonka. There is no callback time listed on the audition notice.
I had a terrible nightmare last night, in it the person they hired to replace me as director took over my entire office and let choir kids hang out all the time. It was awful. So I didn't get a great night of sleep, which is good. I look older.
My lower back/hip has been seizing for a week, I overdid it last Saturday at the gym, so I walk with one hand on my back. I also tore up my pinkie toe breaking in shoes, so I limp. Again: good for age. :)
I look down at my hands. I have 4 remaining long fake nails from my last manicure adventure with Harper, three weeks ago. The other 6 have been broken off and hacked at. Another mess that is so me. So I clip two of the nails down and leave the longer thumb nails for balance. If they notice my nails, I've failed anyway, dunno why I bother. It's something to do I suppose.
I have nothing to wear. I coach "Don't dress for a role, dress nicely. Not prom nice, just church nice." I stand in my closet looking at the hodge podge of hand me downs and funky pants and maxi skirts and realize I don't have "church clothes". So do I go for it as me, since I already am Ouiser, or try to find neutral pieces to cobble together, that may look worse than just committing to poor taste. Or Nathan Lane? I can do Nathan Lane pretty easily. Dear God I cannot even dress myself.
Just messaged Eric, he recommends the heart ruffle shirt my mother in law gave me. I always get compliments from older women when I wear it, good call.
Jim made breakfast, I guess I'll go shower?
_______________________________________________
In the shower I realize it's a rant, not a monologue. I can alter my Carrie Fischer Postcards From the Edge in a way that it still works. I'll do that.
__________________________________________________
I arrive 30 minutes early. I text Eric about the tattooed young lady having a cigarette outside the theatre--which is in a strip mall that also contains other businesses. We decide she's the stage manager. An orange mini arrives, and a disheveled man carrying a pile of papers (clearly scripts), a brown to go bag, what looks like mike stands and his car keys in his mouth, stumbles to the theatre. He returns moments later, moves his car around the block, returns and parks in the same spot, emerges with more papers. He returns to his car a third time to retrieve something I cannot identify before it's time for me to go in.
I have identified the director!
The young lady, however, turns out to be an employee at another shop in the strip mall.
___________________________________________________________
I have been the wrong age my entire career.
In my 20's I read older, and rarely was considered because actors who were actually 30 were better than me. Then I took a decade plus off to be a mom and a teacher. Landing me here, a young looking 50, and still the wrong age.
The callback went well. Again, Nice People! And I nailed reading for both Ouiser and Clairee. He has a definite type in mind for the other roles that I do not fit, and that's fine. I would have liked to read for M'lynn but it was clear he had a specific type in mind.
It was a joy to sit there as an actor and watch the proceedings without my judgey director hat.
I had the best time! I got to be an old southern grumpy and he read enough scenes for me to be funny physically, create a character, nail the meter in the text,and cry! I got to CRY I never get to cry! He was auditioning M'lynn's, you know "My daughter can't run to Texas....why is she dead..." and all I had to do was control my crying until Clairree shoved me down front "Hit her!"
IT WAS THE BEST ABSOLUTELY THE BEST MOMENT!!!
'cause I was actually crying, so I had to say "are you high" through tears and anger and surprise and WHO EVER GETS TO DO THAT?
Dang I MISS ACTING!
They have more auditions tomorrow, and I'm confident that I am too young to get cast. But I had such a great time, I'm going to look up more auditions tonight and go to another one.
I get it now! 20 years too late but still, I GET IT!
Friday, June 3, 2016
3 June, 2016: The First Bunny Victim is Found
Gatos Diablos 16.
As I have posted previously, I am quite aware that I am not using Spanish correctly. I just find it funnier this way. I like the timber and syntax, and I can hear Martin Buchanan's "Monster Truck" voice when I write it. "Gatos Diablos".
The Devil Cats are back.
The first victim was stumbled upon at 8.35 am, MST, on the back patio. Its head was gone and its internal organs had also been removed, and were displayed next to the body. The head was not in sight. The victim, a medium sized Green Mountain bunny, looked like the other thousand bunnies running around. S/he had no notable markings other than the missing head. The murderer was curled up at the edge of the Tarantino scene, calmly awaiting her reward for saving our home from this fuzzy menace.
What she received, instead, was my yearly impression of a Jersey bodgea owner washing the blood off of the cement with the garden hose. With the added suburban element of keeping the dogs away from eating the intestines.
What do they do with the heads?
Every year I ask this question.
This year, the coyotes have returned--huzzzAH! And there have been fox sightings--also huzzah! Due to mange, we haven't had fox up here in a few years, hence the bunny menace and the morning power wash. The cats were simply stepping in where the fox and coyote left off. I thought, that since the natural predators had seemed to return, that the cats would have less interest, or competition, or less prey.
A few years ago, it was birds and mice and large rats. We had a family of fox living next door, and the cats would bring their prey to our porch, and drop it. The next morning, or later in the day, the dead had been removed. I realized that, with a family of baby fox next door, my cats should be disappearing. But they weren't, and we figured out that they had an arrangement with the fox family. The cats caught birds and mice, left them at our door, and under cover of darkness the baby foxes (foxes, is that right? Plural? That looks wrong) would retrieve their dinner.
AH-HA! The cats are smart! They were feeding the fox family and saving their own hides! Very clever, gatos!
But then there were no more fox families, no fox adults, nothing. And that was when the bunny corpses began to arrive.
Without a food chain-self preservation arrangement, I am at a loss as to why the cats A) escalated to bunnies and B) still leave them on the patio. That is when I formulated the gang theory. They are leaving the headless bunnies as a warning. But to who I still do not know.
One morning last summer---it's in a blog somewhere---I came out to what appeared to be two disemboweled bunnies on the patio and two more on the deck! That was a true Tarantino, you gotta get the body count up there. As usual they were headless, heads nowhere to be found. I stopped coming out on the deck in the morning to write as the stench was overpowering. See, I'll power wash the patio and deck, but that's it. If the dogs don't eat the remains, or at least move them, they just stay in my yard. A Big Bunny Burial Ground, except for the burying. It's just a body dump. My back yard is the Colorado version of the East River.
But today, there are fox sightings, and I hear coyotes. And I see thousands of bunnies daily, hopping everywhere, twitching their noses and flashing their tails. I feel like Anya "What's with all the carrots, why do they need such good eyesight for anyway?" They are kind of a scourge. Maybe the cats are doing a public service.
We'll see. This was only one victim.
Here is the murderous devil hiding behind the deck. Or awaiting her next prey....YES! She jumped on the dog as he passed! And returned to her spot and....YES! She lept upon a fellow Diablo who just wanted to pass through.
As I have posted previously, I am quite aware that I am not using Spanish correctly. I just find it funnier this way. I like the timber and syntax, and I can hear Martin Buchanan's "Monster Truck" voice when I write it. "Gatos Diablos".
The Devil Cats are back.
The first victim was stumbled upon at 8.35 am, MST, on the back patio. Its head was gone and its internal organs had also been removed, and were displayed next to the body. The head was not in sight. The victim, a medium sized Green Mountain bunny, looked like the other thousand bunnies running around. S/he had no notable markings other than the missing head. The murderer was curled up at the edge of the Tarantino scene, calmly awaiting her reward for saving our home from this fuzzy menace.
What she received, instead, was my yearly impression of a Jersey bodgea owner washing the blood off of the cement with the garden hose. With the added suburban element of keeping the dogs away from eating the intestines.
What do they do with the heads?
Every year I ask this question.
This year, the coyotes have returned--huzzzAH! And there have been fox sightings--also huzzah! Due to mange, we haven't had fox up here in a few years, hence the bunny menace and the morning power wash. The cats were simply stepping in where the fox and coyote left off. I thought, that since the natural predators had seemed to return, that the cats would have less interest, or competition, or less prey.
A few years ago, it was birds and mice and large rats. We had a family of fox living next door, and the cats would bring their prey to our porch, and drop it. The next morning, or later in the day, the dead had been removed. I realized that, with a family of baby fox next door, my cats should be disappearing. But they weren't, and we figured out that they had an arrangement with the fox family. The cats caught birds and mice, left them at our door, and under cover of darkness the baby foxes (foxes, is that right? Plural? That looks wrong) would retrieve their dinner.
AH-HA! The cats are smart! They were feeding the fox family and saving their own hides! Very clever, gatos!
But then there were no more fox families, no fox adults, nothing. And that was when the bunny corpses began to arrive.
Without a food chain-self preservation arrangement, I am at a loss as to why the cats A) escalated to bunnies and B) still leave them on the patio. That is when I formulated the gang theory. They are leaving the headless bunnies as a warning. But to who I still do not know.
One morning last summer---it's in a blog somewhere---I came out to what appeared to be two disemboweled bunnies on the patio and two more on the deck! That was a true Tarantino, you gotta get the body count up there. As usual they were headless, heads nowhere to be found. I stopped coming out on the deck in the morning to write as the stench was overpowering. See, I'll power wash the patio and deck, but that's it. If the dogs don't eat the remains, or at least move them, they just stay in my yard. A Big Bunny Burial Ground, except for the burying. It's just a body dump. My back yard is the Colorado version of the East River.
But today, there are fox sightings, and I hear coyotes. And I see thousands of bunnies daily, hopping everywhere, twitching their noses and flashing their tails. I feel like Anya "What's with all the carrots, why do they need such good eyesight for anyway?" They are kind of a scourge. Maybe the cats are doing a public service.
We'll see. This was only one victim.
Here is the murderous devil hiding behind the deck. Or awaiting her next prey....YES! She jumped on the dog as he passed! And returned to her spot and....YES! She lept upon a fellow Diablo who just wanted to pass through.
WANTED
"STRUMPH"
RUNS WITH THE GANG "GATOS DIABLOS"
Do not be fooled by her small size or pretty face. She is the most lethal of the three.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Another Audition? the HELL IS GOING ON?
So...I really enjoyed auditioning again. When you don't really want the part and you know you aren't right for the show, there is real freedom in just going to play.
So Immma do it again.
I'm going to audition in Conifer on Saturday for Steel Magnolias. My friend Toddie and I used to re enact the bench scene with Ouiser and Clairee with much joy. I have always wanted to be Ouiser, and admittedly I am not old enough BUT, Shirley Maclaine was 55 when she made the movie. I can look and act much older than 50! Unfortunately, for me, I'm a young looking 50. But still it'll be fun! I had to dig out a monologue and do a southern accent. Which I love, I only get to pull it out once a year when we do Tennessee Williams, I may not be able to maintain it for a full monologue. But I'm kinda excited to try!
It'd be more fun if I didn't want the role, I know I'm too young for Ouiser but dammit, I am Ouiser and have been for twenty years! I'm too old for M'lynn or Truvvy,so I have it set up to be OK if I don't get cast. I can always hide behind the age issue. Go me. Control Freak: Party of One!
I teach and preach "YOU CANNOT CONTROL CASTING", but I do not practice what I preach. Why should I? I'm not an actor any more.
I have a vague recollection of auditioning for this show when I was in my late 20's. I was wwaaaaaaay too young for any of the parts I wanted, and a bit too old for the younger roles. They read me for Annelle, and I was fine. But another actor who wanted the role more and was right for the part won. I haven't thought about that in years. I knew at the callback whose part it was. For someone who spends her life teaching acting, I sure don't recall a lot of my own experiences. I figure the kids don't need to hear about how I'm a failure, they already know that: "Those who can't do, teach."
WHICH BY THE WAY I SAW A BILLBOARD DOWNTOWN THIS WEEKEND, THERE IS A SHOW ABOUT LOSER TEACHERS AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT IT. I think it's called Those Who Can't, and the billboard has adults in a bathroom drinking brown liquor.
I do not drink at school.
ANYWAY, that's all I can say about that.
So I will keep a fun journal of the audition Saturday. Eric is in Vegas, so I guess I can't text him. Well, I can, but why would he reply: he's in Vegas. But I will Find the Funny and joy in auditioning for the pure love of theatre. The business sucks, and can make many perspective actors exit stage "SCREW THIS IMMMA GET A LIFE". But it only sucks if you let it. I teach my kids the difference between love of the craft and the necessity of the business. Just go to auditions and tell a story. Have fun. You are in love with the craft, not the business. Eventually you will be right for a role, and you will be able to have your cake and eat it to. Until then, take classes, enjoy, explore, HAVE FUN. The day it isn't fun is the day you retire.
And become a teacher.
So Immma do it again.
I'm going to audition in Conifer on Saturday for Steel Magnolias. My friend Toddie and I used to re enact the bench scene with Ouiser and Clairee with much joy. I have always wanted to be Ouiser, and admittedly I am not old enough BUT, Shirley Maclaine was 55 when she made the movie. I can look and act much older than 50! Unfortunately, for me, I'm a young looking 50. But still it'll be fun! I had to dig out a monologue and do a southern accent. Which I love, I only get to pull it out once a year when we do Tennessee Williams, I may not be able to maintain it for a full monologue. But I'm kinda excited to try!
It'd be more fun if I didn't want the role, I know I'm too young for Ouiser but dammit, I am Ouiser and have been for twenty years! I'm too old for M'lynn or Truvvy,so I have it set up to be OK if I don't get cast. I can always hide behind the age issue. Go me. Control Freak: Party of One!
I teach and preach "YOU CANNOT CONTROL CASTING", but I do not practice what I preach. Why should I? I'm not an actor any more.
I have a vague recollection of auditioning for this show when I was in my late 20's. I was wwaaaaaaay too young for any of the parts I wanted, and a bit too old for the younger roles. They read me for Annelle, and I was fine. But another actor who wanted the role more and was right for the part won. I haven't thought about that in years. I knew at the callback whose part it was. For someone who spends her life teaching acting, I sure don't recall a lot of my own experiences. I figure the kids don't need to hear about how I'm a failure, they already know that: "Those who can't do, teach."
WHICH BY THE WAY I SAW A BILLBOARD DOWNTOWN THIS WEEKEND, THERE IS A SHOW ABOUT LOSER TEACHERS AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT IT. I think it's called Those Who Can't, and the billboard has adults in a bathroom drinking brown liquor.
I do not drink at school.
ANYWAY, that's all I can say about that.
So I will keep a fun journal of the audition Saturday. Eric is in Vegas, so I guess I can't text him. Well, I can, but why would he reply: he's in Vegas. But I will Find the Funny and joy in auditioning for the pure love of theatre. The business sucks, and can make many perspective actors exit stage "SCREW THIS IMMMA GET A LIFE". But it only sucks if you let it. I teach my kids the difference between love of the craft and the necessity of the business. Just go to auditions and tell a story. Have fun. You are in love with the craft, not the business. Eventually you will be right for a role, and you will be able to have your cake and eat it to. Until then, take classes, enjoy, explore, HAVE FUN. The day it isn't fun is the day you retire.
And become a teacher.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Postcards from a Cooler Generation PART ONE
I kinda dig old men.
I like to say it's been going on the last few years, but when I stop and think about it, I've always had a thing about old guys.
I love their stories.
My High School Theatre teacher qualified as an "old guy" ---HE WAS OLD TO ME--and was a Vietnam Vet.
My grandpa was from the WWII Silent Generation. Those guys are awesome, because they don't want to talk about it. I cannot fathom going through something so traumatic that I won't talk about it. I had to travel to Hawaii, boat to the Pearl Harbor memorial, see my family name on the memorial, come back home, and trap my grandpa in a corner in order to learn that "RL Wyckoff" on the Arizona was his cousin.
I HAD TO ASK! THAT'S KINDA BIG NEWS FOR OUR FAMILY, GRANDPA, DON'T YOU THINK? He shrugged "He was my cousin, I didn't know him that well." And with that, he was done talking about it.
The last few years I have found myself milking stories out of my dad, my uncle Bob, and randomly crossing paths with Delightful Old Gentlemen! Some I get their names, some I do not. Some just offer me a seat, or comment on my coffee choice;" Ha, you have to wait, you gotta fancy one, didntcha? I got mine fast and I can leave: just coffee." They are all pretty much in their 80's, except for dad and uncle Bob, who are 70's Kinda Guys.
My dad, uncle Bob and uncle Leroy all drive to Frederick together to get their hair cut by my barber brother in law. It's beyond cute. Todd's shop is barely big enough for the four of them, yet I can imagine them all sitting along the wall, catching up on gossip and mishearing every other word. Todd is ex Army, my dad was Navy and I don't know if Bob or Leroy have military affiliations, but I am sure they do have opinions. When I sit with Bob, I just listen to whatever story he has in the moment, or ask him about being raised in Denver. I've never asked about military. Bob is the source of The Best Racist Stories Ever in my family. It was at his wedding (Bob is Hispanic, by the way. We are not) that an Aunt stood up and loudly asked "Who let in all these Mexicans?"I LOVE THAT STORY! I have no memory of that particular Aunt, and I think I was present at that wedding, albeit very young. However, if I was there I have no doubt that moment imprinted on my brain. He helped the stereotype along by threatening to cut off my ears and make tacos out of them, and wielding kitchen knives while saying "Mexican Credit Cards". I didn't get it. My cousin had to explain it to me. "He's saying he robs people with knives."
"Why would you rob people with knives? He has his own knives." Even at a young age I appreciated commas.
"HE ROBS PEOPLE. HE USES KNIVES TO DO IT."
"No he doesn't, he's in the kitchen,"
"He means Mexicans. Use knives. To rob people."
"Why?"
At that point I'm pretty sure I was punched, or tripped, or walked away from.
_________
One night at the pub, my dad told me stories of being a kid on the farm in Genoa. None of it had I heard before.
He told me my grandpa left home when he was a kid by hopping a freight. There were too many kids in the house during the depression, so he hopped a freight. Rode it to California. With a guy who died.
...."dad?''.....
"Ya, he wouldn't talk about it. Fella died on the trip I guess."
How John Steinbeck.
___________
They also lost an entire herd of sheep one winter. Before he had cows, my grandpa had sheep. A Lot of sheep. The number escapes me, hundreds. A storm blew in, and out there in Genoa there is no cover. It's all flat, a few ravines, which in my memory are just ditches. Sheep, it turns out, aren't the brightest of God's creatures. They all crammed themselves into a ditch, right up against one another, to stay warm or get out of the storm. They crammed so close they suffocated. Every last one of them.
An entire herd of dead sheep.
Dad said it was several trailer truckloads of sheep. They had to be removed.
So by the time I came along, grandpa had cows, and chickens, and a dog and no sheep.
_____
When grandma and grandpa got married, they had the plot of land in Genoa. No money to build a house, just enough for the land. So they dug a hole in the ground and set up housekeeping under a piece of plywood (dad says it may have been tar). Like prairie dogs. Until they could afford the house, which they bought and had transported to the land ---which is so cool to me---and had it placed over the hole in the ground. Which became their cellar, and is the place I remember going down into to explore as a kid. I still have weird dreams about that cellar, mostly about being trapped. They lived in the house for 30 ish years, and no tornado ever touched the house. Considering how dearly tornadoes love that corridor of eastern Colorado, I think it was God's way of giving them a break.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
audition at 50
GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY TO AVOID PANIC ATTACKS? I auditioned for a community theatre show. First "real" audition in...18 years?
I did a thing that used to cause me grave anxiety to avoid anxiety.
I can train a kid to nail this, but I cannot locate a decent photo of myself,a working printer or remember enough shows to build a resume. I sit in my office at school on my desk top, talking to myself after ransacking my sample resumes that I keep to teach kids, and realize none of them are mine. I have old headshots, but no resumes. I cannot remember anything I did 20 years ago. Was I in theatre? Did I do things?
I am also lazy, so I had to find a song I already knew in Farrell's stash. Eric tried to help by getting on his phone and looking up songs an old fat woman can sing, and I said "I can't do that" and he said "You pay $3 and hit print" and I said "No, I don't want to learn a whole new song, it's not Broadway, I'm just filling time." He replied with his usual "UGH" and I said "Yes, this is exhausting. This is why I quit."
I cannot dress like my type because it's changed and I dunno what it is. I dig out my culottes and a floppy shirt to ensure I look 30 pounds heavier than I am. I kind of look for some mascara but Harper has it all, so I leave the house without makeup. I did take a shower, I'm not an animal. I even wore my cheetah pointy toed flats that make me think I'm being fashionable. They are 15 years old, have gaff tape holding the edges together and clop when I walk. I don't dance so there is no reason to wear jazz shoes. Back In The Day I was a "mover" and I could execute dance moves taught to me. But arthritis is a bitch so I don't. AND YES ERIC WE ALL KNOW ABOUT CHITA RIVERA, SIT DOWN, I'M NOT CHITA RIVERA.
I arrive at the audition location 30 minutes early because I have too much anxiety to sit at home. I figure I'll get a Starbucks while I wait. Anxiety loves coffee. However, the audition location is in an old, sad, saggy strip mall with no Starbucks. No Mom and Pop Coffee. No Fro Yo. All dance studios and regular businesses. Best choice is to sit in the car and stalk the auditioners.
And text Eric.
Let the Snark Begin!
So many girls hoping to snag the lead, everyone watched the movie and they want to be Anne Margaret. I did this show in high school, and I wanted to be Anne Margaret but alas, even at 17 I was 80 years old and I was cast as the old mom. I watch their moms walk them in, they are clutching their binders of music, headshot and res tucked inside, short skirts bopping off their butts... I snap Eric photos for Snark Ammo. A ridiculous invasion of privacy, but I didn't invent the camera phone or Paparazzi, I'm just following the example set for me.
The Snark Fest is lighthearted, we mean no harm. We've directed enough to be kind and gracious, and auditioned enough to know the anxiety is real. It's just a way to pass the time. There are many "Ugh's".
Everyone auditioning is 30 years younger than I am because it's one of those 50's teeenage shows. I just wanna be a parent in the show. That's my type now, right? 'cause I am a MOM I can PLAY a mom?
That's hilarious.
So I'm in the waiting room, filling out my little sheet (I guarantee they cannot read my email address, and I didn't put it on my resume. See above "can't remember things to put on resume" and "arthritis") I'm seated next to a young lady in a very short blue dress. "Skater girl" dress, they remind me of Sally's skirt in The Catcher in the Rye every time I see them. Her very fashionable mom is chatting with the Stage Manager. Maybe she did shows, maybe they know the same people, maybe both. I tried to block it out: " COLORADO CHORALE, DENVER SCHOOL OF THE ARTS, OH YES WELL HE IS NOW WORKING WITH BANANAFACE MCQEEN ON BROADWAY". I text Eric, "I think this woman was in Chicago with this group, she must be auditioning for Rosie." I take in her manicured hands, her petite frame, her tight A line bob, soft 30 something wrinkles and all the crap returns from past years. Who are these people and what am I doing here? I'm on the wrong side of the door.
As a director, I'm always in the other room. I had forgotten this part of auditions. I text Eric "Ugh, this is exhausting. This is why I quit." Everyone is pretty.
The director emerges. He looks at me, says nothing, then turns to the fashionable mom and says "You're here for auditions?" and she demures, no no. He then gives me a sidelong glance and retreats behind the door. Awesome. I'm such a mom I can't even get cast as a mom, he thinks I'm just a mom. I'm too mom-ish to play a mom, get me? Soccer moms are moms, not mom/theatre teacher moms. There were other real moms dropping off their daughters, they looked like me. But they didn't have the audacity to audition. They know their place. They saw Fashionable Mom there with the SM and retreated back to the mini van with a book.
I suddenly have a flash of my own past experience at 15 ( maybe 16), when my mom took me to a Lakewood Players audition for Gypsy. I knew no one and mom came in with me. Unlike this audition, it was open, we all watched each other. I was surprised at how many people seemed to know one another, and how good they all were. And all different ages. True Community Theatre. I was cast as "Electra" and one of the other strippers was the choreographer and like 30 years old (when I was 15, everyone else was 30).
The young lady seated next to me--ostensibly my "daughter", so thinks the director- has been called in. Her blue skirt bounces off of her bottom as intended, and again I hear Holden "She wanted to go skating so she could rent one of those skirts her butt looks good in." Ah, Holden, you are still in my head after all these years.
I sit and listen, she's good. Pitchy, but who isn't at 15? All the girls here are wearing short skirts that are too short and heels that are too high, giving them the look of baby deer. I am still the only woman of a certain age, no guys at all, yet a late 20 something shows up. Same dress and heels as the 15 year olds. Dude. I'm dressed like Schleppy the Clown. Neither one of us here is dressed appropriately for our age. Well, I am. If I'm Nathan Lane.
That's when it hits me. That's who I look like! I should be strolling down a sidewalk in Miami Beach yelling I have no peds, why can't we go home?
The young lady emerges from her audition and begins to tell fashionable mom how she screwed up the beginning. We can hear you, dear, we know exactly how it went. And you were fine.
smile emoticonyou were fine. Fashionable Mom and deer exit. My appointment is in five minutes, nobody else has arrived. I think the SM will take me in early, but no. I hear singing from the audition room. The directors are performing for each other. UGH. I'm too old to think that's cute. The SM opens the door and asks if they are ready. She says she thought they had someone in there.... whatever.
smile emoticonyou were fine. Fashionable Mom and deer exit. My appointment is in five minutes, nobody else has arrived. I think the SM will take me in early, but no. I hear singing from the audition room. The directors are performing for each other. UGH. I'm too old to think that's cute. The SM opens the door and asks if they are ready. She says she thought they had someone in there.... whatever.
The SM ushers me in, and I'm suddenly Nathan Lane.
Pithy, gay, swooshy, and from New York.
My song is "Gorgeous" from Apple Tree. It's the only song from my old repertoire in Farrell's stash that I can pull off at my advanced age and weight. I haven't sung it in years. The accompanist gives me my starting note. I realize too late this song is structured in such a way that you only get the starting note, and you are expected to sing 4 more notes with no accompaniment, and land in the right place when the piano returns. I smiled and....I nailed it. Not bad for an old lady with a blown ear drum. Once the initial moment was secure,
I relaxed. Imagine Nathan Lane singing this song. I'll wait.
I relaxed. Imagine Nathan Lane singing this song. I'll wait.
That was funny, right?
AUDITIONS ARE FUN WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY YOUR RENT!
The audition listed "Co Directors". One of them said
"Look for an email tonight" and I nodded, but of course they can't read my writing but whatever. They were really nice people.
Of course I didn't get an email. I only checked once, because to check more triggers my friend Kathryn Gray's voice in my head " What are you, a rank amateur?" She was referring to my compulsive need to check voicemail for callbacks, back in the day. It's fine.
There is not a part for Nathan Lane in this show.
But I'm glad I went. It was fun to do a thing again, and not have anxiety about casting.
And they were nice people. I could use more nice people in my life.
Scene.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Gall Bladders have an expiration date
This last Friday, about 2pm, my sister texted to say she was at the ER with my mom.
She texted again "they think it's her gall bladder, emergency surgery."
That was about 3pm.
I had to get to the show, and at 7 she texted "they can't find a surgeon, so may be tomorrow."
I asked about the definition of the word "emergency" and from there we had some fun at Kaiser's expense.
By 7 there was no surgeon found, OR they were booked, depending on mom's story or my sister's.
Ok, so surgery scheduled at St. Joe's Saturday at noon.
We arrive about 12.30 at the New Improved Jewish/St. Joseph's complex. It looks and feels very much like an airport.
However, unlike an airport or any hospital I've ever been in, it was empty.
Deserted.
Begin Walking Dead jokes.
Seriously. This enormous, spacious waiting area with enough seats for 75 people is completely deserted. Ther's a big screen TV with surgeon's names on it, but no patients. The coffee cove says "coffee at the front desk".
But there is nobody at the front desk.
After an hour ---the surgery was supposed to take under 2 hours---Harper and I broke into the desk. We located hot chocolate but no coffee. Harp came up with the idea to look for a KEY to the cabinet below the Keurig. We returned to the desk and Harp found the keys in a pen holder. SCORE. We opened the cabinet and VOILA, coffee! We made some, returned to our seats and waited for the coffee police. There are no people in the hospital, but we did see security cameras. No one emerged. We made two cups of hot chocolate and three cups of coffee.
After two and a half hours I called the number I was given from a waiting room phone and was told they had no information, she was still in surgery.
After two and half hours and thirty seconds, my sister got a call from someone saying mom was in recovery. She could not get a human when she called back, so she had to try several times. Once she got a human, she was told "Just kidding, she's still in surgery, it's taking longer than they thought."
So to recap, we are three hours in to a 1-2 hour surgery, and Karie and Harp go downstairs to find a cafeteria of some kind. While they're gone a surgeon appears--he is twelve years old-- to tell us the long story of mom's now removed gall bladder and an errant gall stone that found its way into a tube it was not supposed to be in, and that the tube is too small for their instruments. So...after trying to fetch the stone with a surgical instrument larger than the tube for an hour or so, they decided they couldn't get it. A Gastro Bannaist has to be consulted. And he will go through mom's esophagus to fetch the stone. Look at a map of the human body, your esophagus and gall bladder- and attached tubes- are no where near one another. I just smile and say "Ok", because I did not go to medical school. He repeats "In conclusion, we need a Gastro Bananaist to perform the procedure because our instruments are too big and we are not allowed to play with their instruments. So we have to find one."
..... I'm thinking....we had such luck "finding" a surgeon for an "emergency", this should go well.
So Mom cannot eat Saturday, because on Sunday the Gastro Specialist will do the procedure, and she cannot eat.
They 're looking for a guy....
They're looking......
Ummmm..... in layman's terms: "We can't find a guy to do it tomorrow, so stay here in the hospital and wait until MONDAY when we think we can find a guy."
So she stays Saturday night and they let her have some broth, because she hasn't eaten since Friday morning.
And Sunday she just chills in the hospital all day, alone, because nobody works there.
Today we went to pick her up after her procedure. They Found A Guy. She was done at 12.30, we got there about 1.15. We're told they're getting her paperwork together. At 2 nobody had come in to check on her, or explain anything, so Karie, Tracy and I got some lunch. We got back at 3 figuring surely she'd be ready to check out....funny. That's funny. We waited another 30 minutes for paperwork, by then mom was dressed and ready to walk herself out. She determined she was too woozy and needed a wheelchair. Which we waited for for 40 minutes. We then waited for the prescription that had been called down two hours before and was "waiting for you" for ten minutes.
So, to sum up:
-Nobody works at St. Joe's.
-There are no patients at St. Joe's.
-No surgeons work for Kaiser, particularly on a Sunday.
This is not a single or isolated incident. This is not an unfamiliar story. Ask a physician or nurse, and they will apologetically tell you that this is how it is now.
According to one nurse, Costa Rica is the place to go for surgery, that's where all the surgeons have gone.
And other sources report that KAISER will pay your med school bills if you agree to come work for them.
They got that idea from Maurice on Northern Exposure.
And there you have that.
Scene.
She texted again "they think it's her gall bladder, emergency surgery."
That was about 3pm.
I had to get to the show, and at 7 she texted "they can't find a surgeon, so may be tomorrow."
I asked about the definition of the word "emergency" and from there we had some fun at Kaiser's expense.
By 7 there was no surgeon found, OR they were booked, depending on mom's story or my sister's.
Ok, so surgery scheduled at St. Joe's Saturday at noon.
We arrive about 12.30 at the New Improved Jewish/St. Joseph's complex. It looks and feels very much like an airport.
However, unlike an airport or any hospital I've ever been in, it was empty.
Deserted.
Begin Walking Dead jokes.
Seriously. This enormous, spacious waiting area with enough seats for 75 people is completely deserted. Ther's a big screen TV with surgeon's names on it, but no patients. The coffee cove says "coffee at the front desk".
But there is nobody at the front desk.
After an hour ---the surgery was supposed to take under 2 hours---Harper and I broke into the desk. We located hot chocolate but no coffee. Harp came up with the idea to look for a KEY to the cabinet below the Keurig. We returned to the desk and Harp found the keys in a pen holder. SCORE. We opened the cabinet and VOILA, coffee! We made some, returned to our seats and waited for the coffee police. There are no people in the hospital, but we did see security cameras. No one emerged. We made two cups of hot chocolate and three cups of coffee.
After two and a half hours I called the number I was given from a waiting room phone and was told they had no information, she was still in surgery.
After two and half hours and thirty seconds, my sister got a call from someone saying mom was in recovery. She could not get a human when she called back, so she had to try several times. Once she got a human, she was told "Just kidding, she's still in surgery, it's taking longer than they thought."
So to recap, we are three hours in to a 1-2 hour surgery, and Karie and Harp go downstairs to find a cafeteria of some kind. While they're gone a surgeon appears--he is twelve years old-- to tell us the long story of mom's now removed gall bladder and an errant gall stone that found its way into a tube it was not supposed to be in, and that the tube is too small for their instruments. So...after trying to fetch the stone with a surgical instrument larger than the tube for an hour or so, they decided they couldn't get it. A Gastro Bannaist has to be consulted. And he will go through mom's esophagus to fetch the stone. Look at a map of the human body, your esophagus and gall bladder- and attached tubes- are no where near one another. I just smile and say "Ok", because I did not go to medical school. He repeats "In conclusion, we need a Gastro Bananaist to perform the procedure because our instruments are too big and we are not allowed to play with their instruments. So we have to find one."
..... I'm thinking....we had such luck "finding" a surgeon for an "emergency", this should go well.
So Mom cannot eat Saturday, because on Sunday the Gastro Specialist will do the procedure, and she cannot eat.
They 're looking for a guy....
They're looking......
Ummmm..... in layman's terms: "We can't find a guy to do it tomorrow, so stay here in the hospital and wait until MONDAY when we think we can find a guy."
So she stays Saturday night and they let her have some broth, because she hasn't eaten since Friday morning.
And Sunday she just chills in the hospital all day, alone, because nobody works there.
Today we went to pick her up after her procedure. They Found A Guy. She was done at 12.30, we got there about 1.15. We're told they're getting her paperwork together. At 2 nobody had come in to check on her, or explain anything, so Karie, Tracy and I got some lunch. We got back at 3 figuring surely she'd be ready to check out....funny. That's funny. We waited another 30 minutes for paperwork, by then mom was dressed and ready to walk herself out. She determined she was too woozy and needed a wheelchair. Which we waited for for 40 minutes. We then waited for the prescription that had been called down two hours before and was "waiting for you" for ten minutes.
So, to sum up:
-Nobody works at St. Joe's.
-There are no patients at St. Joe's.
-No surgeons work for Kaiser, particularly on a Sunday.
This is not a single or isolated incident. This is not an unfamiliar story. Ask a physician or nurse, and they will apologetically tell you that this is how it is now.
According to one nurse, Costa Rica is the place to go for surgery, that's where all the surgeons have gone.
And other sources report that KAISER will pay your med school bills if you agree to come work for them.
They got that idea from Maurice on Northern Exposure.
And there you have that.
Scene.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Volunteer
So this year, when Harp asked what I wanted for Christmas, I said "Nothing. I just want to contribute." mbnhm,
It's 2 January and I've done nothing but clean out my closet and give clothes to the ARC. Way to be.
I adopted a rescue dog for Harper in October.
My Thespians bought food for the Littleton Families in need over Thanksgiving. I bought stuff.
Harp bought blankets and food to take downtown, I reimbursed her.
Ya, none of that is relevant. I did nothing. I contributed nothing.
Mazda now how this commercial running, take a test drive and they'll donate an hour of their time to a charity.
And I thought "Why isn't that a thing, always?"
Why doesn't Mazda just have a calendar with employees names slotted in for their time at a charity every month? Part of your job is to contribute else where. To give back.
That is why Thespians started contributing, I told them they have to. That being an honor society that doesn't give back is self indulgent bullshit. So they go downtown and make sandwiches and hand out blankets and water, they contributed to the Thanksgiving Baskets. 'Cause I'm a bitch who made them.
But I don't contribute myself. Which is why I Suck.
You can't make teachers volunteer on top of their jobs 'cause with our pay scale, it's pretty close to volunteer work, anyway. And everything we do for students outside of the school day is relevant. but does that excuse me from contributing elsewhere?
NOPE.
I have a co worker who runs a whole Big Thing for Thanksgiving, feeding families at Thanksgiving. Hundreds. She's a teacher with four (soon to be five) kids of her own. So...ya, there goes the "I'm a TEACHER I'm EXEMPT theory."
Happy New Year. I suck.
It's 2 January and I've done nothing but clean out my closet and give clothes to the ARC. Way to be.
I adopted a rescue dog for Harper in October.
My Thespians bought food for the Littleton Families in need over Thanksgiving. I bought stuff.
Harp bought blankets and food to take downtown, I reimbursed her.
Ya, none of that is relevant. I did nothing. I contributed nothing.
Mazda now how this commercial running, take a test drive and they'll donate an hour of their time to a charity.
And I thought "Why isn't that a thing, always?"
Why doesn't Mazda just have a calendar with employees names slotted in for their time at a charity every month? Part of your job is to contribute else where. To give back.
That is why Thespians started contributing, I told them they have to. That being an honor society that doesn't give back is self indulgent bullshit. So they go downtown and make sandwiches and hand out blankets and water, they contributed to the Thanksgiving Baskets. 'Cause I'm a bitch who made them.
But I don't contribute myself. Which is why I Suck.
You can't make teachers volunteer on top of their jobs 'cause with our pay scale, it's pretty close to volunteer work, anyway. And everything we do for students outside of the school day is relevant. but does that excuse me from contributing elsewhere?
NOPE.
I have a co worker who runs a whole Big Thing for Thanksgiving, feeding families at Thanksgiving. Hundreds. She's a teacher with four (soon to be five) kids of her own. So...ya, there goes the "I'm a TEACHER I'm EXEMPT theory."
Happy New Year. I suck.
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