The Thing and The Pudding

I received Amy Poehler's book Yes Please for Christmas this year, and tore through it, much as I did Bossypants a few years ago.

I must have read Amy's book at the exact right time, because I can't stop my head yelling at me 'TEACHING THE THING IS NOT DOING THE THING, DO THE THING!"

I have, for a year and a half now not done The Thing.

I ventured out and found others who were willing to let me do The Other Thing, but not The Thing, and that was great and a fabulous distraction, and led me to believe that, maybe I could  return to  The Other Thing. The problem is, nobody wants me to do The Other Thing anymore, and nobody wants me to do The Thing, either, but they are happy to let me teach The Things anywhere I'd like, any age group I'd like.

But the issue is that I Love The Thing. And it only works if I can do it with people who are old enough and hungry enough to grow and stretch and rejoice and learn from the experience. As kind and magnificent as the many people who have allowed me to do  Sort Of The Thing are, the age group is wrong and not fulfilling for me. Which, they tell me, is not the point, it's not about ME, which is why you teach, dumbass, you TEACH THE THING because it is not about YOU.

UGH.

I don't want to do The Thing for Pudding, I don't even want the pudding! I stand by Christopher Guest's For Your Consideration: "I don't act for trophies." I AGREE. I don't care, dude, about pudding. I just want To Do The Thing. I miss The Thing.

UGH

Because teaching the thing, is NOT doing The Thing. My heart knows the difference.

Goals and Dreams

   This past year, Jim and I focused on the first goal I have had in a very long time: fix our credit so we can get a new car.
    It was practical, achievable and we did it together. Every decision ended with "Is this going to help or interfere with our goal." Jim kept saying "We have to stay focused, we can't lose sight." It sounds like we were climbing the Andes, I know, but it was a big deal to us. We knew we had a small window-to do this before the girls' graduate and their loans come due, before anything else can interfere.
    And two days before Christmas, we bought a new a car. Our first new car in ten years. A car that had been researched, planned, saved for. A car for which I taught and directed--and will continue to teach and direct---kindergartners. It is ongoing, because the goal of a new car did not end with Vernon  Fransisco (his full Christian name) in my driveway, that's where it starts. I still have to save and adjust and pay off debt and direct and teach outside of my main teaching gig to continue to keep this car.  And I love it. I love knowing I had to make a plan, I had to think ahead and I have to continue. It was a great distraction from losing my theatre.
    So...now what? While maintaining the car payments is ongoing, I have achieved the goal of the car.  A brand new, insured and warranteed to blue perfect heaven Subie sits in my garage. I love it, I find excuses to drive it, and I busy myself in the mornings going through old debt and finishing off what we started, so the new year can begin not fully debt free, but at least with everything current. Is that a dream? To have no outstanding debt or collectors? To have everything current?   Sure. Why not.

   I do have a dream, I actually have two. I suppose they are dreams, as opposed to goals, because they are unachievable.

   The first one is my NYC dream. The one where I live in a townhouse in Greenwich and am the house manager for the Cherry Lane Theatre. I spend my days writing whatever I want, sometimes it's a play, sometimes it's blogging. I have a publisher who is kind and once a year  I publish a small tome of my random , stupid thoughts, and I sell enough to maintain my townhouse. My plays are occasionally workshopped in NYC and on three occasions have been produced at The Cherry Lane, under a psuedonym, so I can just be the house manager when I'm there (may I remind you  that this is  A DREAM). I live close enough to walk to work. I have no illusions about acting or directing, I just keep the house in order. Fix the toilets. Talk to patrons,  thank the teachers who bring their students to the shows. Sometimes, if there is a need, I run a prop check for the SM because I am  always friends with the SM. While s/he takes care of the show and everyone on it, I make sure s/he has coffee or tea, tell them the hair looks great tonight and keep extra blacks in the office for the days s/he's juggling gigs. I also see to it that, during rehearsals, everything  is open and accessible for the directors. I make coffee and tea every rehearsal day, clean the mugs and bring fresh fruit. In other houses it's the SM who does this, but at Cherry Lane it's me, the house manager, and that's part of the Cherry Lane's charm. Everyone loves me because I don't want anything from them. My job is to support and feed and keep warm--or cool off, NY summers can be brutal---the cast and crews of all shows. It's a pleasure and a joy, as many newer playwrights are trying out their shows on our stage, and some older playwrights are venturing into new territory, and this is their church, and it's imperative that they feel comfortable. Every day I arrive three hours before curtain. I do yoga on the stage first, to balance all the energies. I play soothing music to warm the space up, before I check backstage and clean up anything overlooked by the crew. I check bulbs in the mirrors, wipe down the makeup counters--even though I know the makeup crew cleaned up beautifully --make sure the Glade Plug in is full and doesn't need replacing. Lavender is the current favorite scent. Then I walk the house, checking for programs, left over garbage. Even though my crew is attentive, people will still sneak in food and drink. It's hard to hold the line when so many Broadway houses are allowing food and drink--they even have cupholders on their seats. UGH. What a horrible nightmare. I check the problem seat, get a wrench and make sure it's secure. Then I run a dust rag over the sound and light boards, before heading to the lobby. Check inventory: red wine, white wine, beer. It's October, so I check the Baileys and coffee, those are popular as it gets colder. Then it's the bathrooms, the night crew is fantastic about bleaching and cleaning, but I  walk through and run a Clorox wipe over the sinks and check the Glade Plug in. Flush all the toilets---I'm superstitious,  my first visit to the Cherry Lane  was with students when I was teaching 100 years ago, the toilets in the women's restroom had malfunctioned and they had to close the restrooms. When I took over, I added two more toilets to each restroom and took down the "Men" and "Women" signs. Now they just say  "JOHN" and "LOU", cause I think that's funny. Then it's the lobby, run the vacuum, check the programs and sign to make sure they are for the proper show. Then to my office, where I manage this evening's tickets. We are old school, with so many out of town visitors and groups, we print and mail most tickets. But it requires a close eye, and I make sure I've printed tickets to any open seats we still have and close the ticket purchase window online for that evening's show. Our Box Office Manager is also a web designer, she is on top of it, but lives in the city so I manage anything necessary on cite.  By now,  the SM has arrived, and the actors are beginning to arrive, but everything is open and cleaned and warm (or cool), well lit and the coffee and tea is made. I sit in my office with a glass of red wine--only one before the show---and look over the house numbers for the weekend, leave a message with the radiator repair man--it's very quaint that it bangs when it comes on, but tonight it was particularly loud and sounded like something shook loose. I run a wood cleaner over the ticket booth and check the sidewalk out front for garbage, or snow, or teenagers. I look up at the awning "THE CHERRY LANE THEATRE" and close my eyes, saying a prayer of thanks.

That's one dream.

The other one is the complete opposite. In that one, Jim and I have a very nice but quaint "log" cabin on fifty acres near Steamboat. We have a horse, who is my horse, four llamas and two alpacas and a donkey. The dogs roam freely and safely, as we are far from any roads, and the cats come and go as they please.  Every morning, I walk out with the dogs to the barn where the llamas and alpacas and George the Donkey are warmly snuggled in for the night. I brush everybody while they have their breakfast, as the  dogs run madly outside the barn waiting for the others to emerge so they can chase them. The llamas pay no heed, they only notice when the dogs nip at their legs at night when they are being herded back to the barn. During the day it's just a game, and the alpacas have a particular snark to them, one time I saw them head butt the German Shepard. I'm not sure he knew an alpaca from a llama until that moment, now he gives them a wide berth. Once everyone is brushed and fed, I hop on my horse and we all ride out. The land behind us is protected national forest, so they can roam all they'd like, and some evenings it can be stressful to find the  buggers, but they are not dumb and they know where their food is. Unless a storm is coming, I don't worry about it too much.  Once a year we shave the llamas and alpacas and give the fur to our friend who spins and weaves and twirls it into yarn, and then I make alpaca mittens and scarves that I sell in Steamboat. When I'm not riding my horse, or knitting, I write. I write constantly, and inconsistently, and my plays are produced and my stories are published and widely read, and I have anxiety attacks every time there is a snow storm, because weather plus mountains equals anxiety. This is a dream, and there should be no anxiety, and I just realized there is no anxiety at all in the NYC dream. Hmmm.

Those are my lame dreams. Notice none of them are being on stage. When I was young, ya, I wanted nothing more than to be seen. But now, I'm older and I'm appalled at the utter lack of roles for women in general, and women over 40, specifically. In both dreams, I am solving that by writing stories that can be read and adapted, and plays with fabulous, strong female characters. I am single handedly solving the problem. Because it's a DREAM. That's the dream.
   

I Believe I Miss ...2017

....I am grateful I have my wits and I can remember and miss these people and what they did for me.
    Spoiler Alert: They are not dead.

     The bartender at MBB who is from Hell's Kitchen, who, despite a difference of opinion about sexist behavior and ...everything else, physically threw out a patron who grabbed my butt. I miss knowing someone, somehow, had my back.
         Mrs. West. my elementary music teacher at Patterson. She was the first teacher I truly and deeply loved. I  bought her lipstick for Christmas, because she was a grown ass woman and grown ass women liked lipstick as far as my first grade brain understood. She thanked me and looked kindly at me with those chocolate brown eyes, and told me she loved it. She said "You can't even tell I wear lipstick because it's all worn off by the end of the day," and to demonstrate she rubbed her lips together, smiling. Her lips were light brown and her teeth were so white and her eyes were so kind and she was my favorite, favorite, favorite teacher for years. I will never forget her kindness. Her eyes were what I remember most. She looked at me, not around me or over me. She smiled at me. She connected to me. I credit her with instilling my love of music, as I associate it with being connected.
         Mr. Weisheit, my third grade teacher who was an honest to God, full on Hippie. Long hair, beard, sandals. When he taught us his name, he broke it down: We Is He It. I will never forget how cool I thought that was, or how inclusive I felt in his class. My friend Debbie and I were always putting together "shows", and he would allow us, on occasion, to perform for our class. The one I remember most clearly was when I was  Dick Van Dyke, and Debbie was the music box. "I'm only a doll on a music box that's wound by a key..." I remember that line. Debbie was pretty and I was the clown. Story of my life. Thank you, Mr. Weisheit for allowing me to figure that out during class time. That would never happen now, everybody's wound up about content, no time to let kids be kids.
           Diana Solis, who was constantly and relentlessly kind in every possible way, making my skin crawl and exposing my insecurities for all to see.  Diana was the first public hit to my fortress, which features metal bars, Kevlar window coverings, spikes and a moat containing  freaking sharks with freaking laser beams on their heads. She also left LHS for greener pastures.
          Kline. My first day at LHS I had no guidance, no mentor, and the door to 146 was locked. As I wandered the halls hopeful that someone would give me direction, Kline flipped me off  like "Hudson, look into my eye", and we became best friends.He called me Satan, I threw up every time I saw him and he would send messages to me via students that involved hell fire, witch curses and the general stench that accompanies me as far as he was concerned. He retired. Nobody sniffs the air as I pass any more,accusing me of polluting the halls with my malodor.
          Judy Vlasin, who was assigned as my mentor in lang arts when it became clear that the person in theatre who was supposed to be my "mentor" was capable of only the name in quotes, not the job itself. Everything --and I mean, everything --I know about teaching in general and teaching English specifically I learned from Judy. She retired and abandoned us.
          Only Eric Pung and Stephanie Ortiz get me 100% of the time. Steph and I can quote the entire movie Real Genius from any starting point, and Eric and I have too many sharing points. Two years ago whilst building the "food girls", I came up with a cape for the beer girl that involved a curtain rod. I laughed until I peed, and nobody got me, until Eric was shown. He burst into laughter and said "I saw it in the window and I couldn't resist", because CAROL BURNETT IS QUEEN and he and I know this. That's why he choreographed for ten years, and why Steph was my tech director and light designer. Because we are the only three who will laugh until we pee at a curtain rod. I miss having them in the building, knowing that either one could pop in, or send a message via a kid...Eric and Steph Not There has been a true blue drag.

           I was hoping to make it to 10, but if I'm honest, and not including the deceased, these are the ones I Believe I Miss.

Thanksgiving 2017

   Here's how Empty Nest Syndrome went for us:
   G left for college, two years later H graduated from high school after surviving multiple Vasovagal episodes that determined that she would not be leaving for college after graduation.
   That was fine, she stayed home and attended Red Rocks Community College, and then chose to enroll in Massage Therapy school. She and her boyfriend got an apartment in January.
    By April it was clear the cost of living, both financial and emotional, was taking its toll on them, and she moved back home in August.
    We had an Empty Nest for about ten minutes.
     At the end of September, H asked if an acquaintance of hers from RRCC could stay in our spare room until the end of the semester, as her situation at home was not healthy. "S" moved her dresser and TV in, and we hardly knew she was here. She is a nanny and goes to school. She seemed to function.
     Then she adopted a dog. She is essentially homeless, and she adopted a dog.
Did I mention she did not ask us about adopting a dog?
     OK, maybe not functioning.
     Also, what shelter allowed this to happen?   
     We cannot have a second dog, and she did not ask us first, so I told her no when she arrived with the dog. I'm compassionate, but not kind. I cannot have two dogs, no nope nope. The dog went to live with her friend. Jim and I had many conversations about dogs, and he knew a woman growing up that "always had twelve hounds" running around, and he hated it. We are not the Bumpuses, we will not be the Bumpuses.
      Then G texted that her counselor at college recommended that she get a therapy dog, as her anxiety (A Gorgeous Family Trait We Are Proud To Have Passed On) is increasing exponentially as she approaches graduation. She and I and Jim had several conversations about her finding a different dorm room for her and her dog, paperwork for a therapy dog, the fact that it would be our dog when she moved home after graduation, and finally that over the break we will have a second dog.
      As a family we acquiesced and G adopted a bear named "Zeppelin", who is part chow and part lab. He is a year old and weighs 75 pounds. Oy. She clearly has no idea what a zeppelin is or she would have known he was going to continue to grow.
      Whilst all of this was occurring, H became attached to an elderly dog at the shelter who needed a home. As we knew Zep would be joining us, Jim and I said firmly NO THIRD DOG NO.
      However, there I was at the shelter visiting Yuri, because he was supposedly only going to live a few months, and Jim and I whispered that maybe that was OK...if it was temporary, he has arthritis and is not barky. H and I left without Yuri as he was awfully spry for his posted expiration date, and G was driving back home from Durango with a bear. We figured it'd be best to meet Zep first and get him settled with Marty and the five cats before talking about Yuri the Dying Senior Dog.
     The minute Zep entered the house we knew Yuri was not happening. Zeppelin is a bear, as you know if you read the previous paragraph closely. I told G the shelter had lied to her and she should call her congressman, as they are clearly passing off brown bears as dogs in Durango.   
     Side note but worthy note: Our beloved 14 year old lab Sundown died last November. On the 7th of November. Zeppelin was born last November on the 8th. I don't believe in coincidences. 
     At exactly the same time G was arriving home, S's friend's living situation had deteriorated beyond her, and both her friend and the dog became homeless.
     Jim and I were out, finally, seeing Christopher Titus when H texted to ask if S's friend could also stay with us. I said "That means the dog, too, H, we can't have a third dog." We got home and both girls, the dog and a cat were in my spare room.   
     My anxiety flared.
     I intended to come home from the comedy club and kick them out.
     Do not take advantage. I am sorry your parents are shitty, that's not my problem and it's a separate blog. As  teacher I have seen it time and again, and I was raised in a house with a mom who took in my friends when they ran away, constantly. We had a friend of mine live with us. Jim has a similar story, his friend Steve lived with them. All that was  fine, none of those people took advantage.
      Jim said "Krys, don't kick them out. That's not Christian. It's not their fault this happened."
      Instead, I had a stern conversation with them and the cat left the house.
     Then it became known that "S" was not moving out the second week of December as I thought, she intends to stay until she moves into her dorm in January. Her friend has vague plans to get an apartment and has no exit date.
      My anxiety went China Syndrome, and I forced everyone into a living room meeting, with words and eye contact. I have been kind in the past,  and every time that I am, I get taken advantage of. I will not be taken advantage of, but I will attempt kind. I am compassionate, never doubt that, but compassion and kindness are completely different. Kind is giving a card that says thanks, compassion is giving emotional support that is real and will not be thrown out. I've never been a fan of kind, but H, as a soon to be graduated massage therapist, started her Be Kind Save the Bees mantra and called me out.
       So I made them commit to dates. Whether she goes to college and moves into the dorms is not my problem, she's out of my house by the first of January. Whether her friend finds an apartment or not, she's out by then too. That's as far as I can go with "kind". I'm in theatre for a reason, I love deadlines, they address my anxiety and calm me down. I cannot function if anything is vague. I need a hard date and a curtain time, and others need to abide by them. That is part of what worked against Yuri the senior dog; his expiration date was too vague.
     So one girl is in the spare room upstairs, on the weird fold out bed thing we bought for G over the summer that H had turned into her Cat Lounge, and they rebuilt G's old Ikea bed so the friend is downstairs in the office. G and H will share H's room, as both have boyfriends whose houses they will be at on and off all week. If I am lucky, the apartment girl will find a place before Christmas so G can have a room in her own house for the month that she will be home.
      And I have three dogs.
      We agreed that H and I would actively try to re home the orphan dog, as he should not have to return to the shelter just because the girl who adopted him does not have a fully developed frontal lobe and adopted a dog while she herself was homeless. There is no kindness here, I am all of the judge-y about this. We will find a new home for this dog, who is honestly very pretty and cute and not trained at all, and H is getting attached...quick, somebody. Give this pup a home.
      Every Thanksgiving, I grouse that I'm not doing enough. When I was younger I drove for Meals on Wheels for PWA, for Volunteers of America, gave money to the Daddy Bruce Thanksgiving. I had a full house of my family and Jim's family and drank and enjoyed the quiet and questioned if I had really done enough.
       I woke up today, Monday, of Thanksgiving week. I started laundry and walked past the office where I heard a young lady who is not my daughter sneeze. The other young lady who is not my daughter and is staying upstairs texted when she left for work to let me know two of the dogs were outside already.
       Can I honestly call it "enough" if I have an orphan dog, my daughter's dog, freaking Marty The Spaz, five cats and two people not related to me filling up my house? All of them are "rescues".
       Is giving shelter to people and animals "enough" for the season?
       Thanksgiving 2017.
       I'll keep you posted.
     
This is Zeppelin. He was here barely an hour before H gave him a lymphatic massage for his sinuses.

 kwmartin 11/2/17 not facebook post

Molly and Tahoe

I do my best to connect current students with working actors and techies, internships and alumni. All kinds of alumni, from actors to recent college grads to massage therapists. If you were a theatre kid and you wanna come teach a thing or tell stories, you are welcomed back with open arms.

Today I booked two alum who graduated together in 2006 and haven't seen one another in ten years. I thought a nice reunion would be a different spin, and I've never booked two on the same day. Also Tahoe, who is IT for the Denver Broncos, was appearing live while Molly was skyping in from LA. At first I thought it was a great idea, and then this morning I thought it was a terrible idea, and then Tahoe walked in the door of 146 and I knew it was a good idea. As soon as I saw him I hugged him so hard I don't think he could breathe.I kept telling him how grown up he looked, and he just kept saying "I know, right?" He has a successful career, marriage and two beautiful children and was willing to share his stories. When he saw Molly again I could see it all come flooding back with them as well, and it was difficult for the two of them to focus on talking to the class instead of reminiscing with one another. Though that did happen, and it was lovely.

The first thing I noticed, after the Bronco zipper jacket, was the ridiculous bling on his finger. How out of character for Tahoe, a quiet and generally mild mannered kid, to be wearing something that looks like it belongs to the "Liberace House of Crap", to borrow a phrase from Friends.

I looked closer.

Holy "House of Crap", it's a Super Bowl ring. OF COURSE! He has a Super Bowl ring. He works for the Broncos, without him all the cool IT stuff is just...door stops. I have never been so close to anything nearly this cool, and it's difficult to not paw at it like a raccoon at a hot dog.

Tahoe's stories are Tahoe's, as are Molly's, so I will not share them here except to say that Tahoe met Slash and Beyonce, which to my students was cooler than the Super Bowl ring, and Molly knows more than she's willing to share but you don't mind, because her huge smile and light giggle are beautiful. The faces she made when Tahoe asked about how the "Weinstein thing" has changed the conversation in Hollywood communicated "We probably shouldn't talk about this in a high school" minutes before she said it. 

They shared and  balanced and surprised us with an intimate story or two. I was just sitting there, enjoying their voices and faces and feeling Theaco listen and react, and then Tahoe had to leave. I guess he has a job or something, maybe that ring is like a leash. Molly remained on Skype and the conversation deteriorated- as conversations are wont to do with teenagers when they exceed an hour- to one of my students naming "hot actors" in an effort to learn how many of them Molly actually knows. I knew none of the names that were thrown out, but apparently Molly has worked with or met all of them so...bonus.

One of my kids was quite taken with Tahoe's journey, and is inspired that he is happy without a college degree, but with so much life experience. One of the kids was astounded at how much Molly works, and they all have  a clearer understanding of how much work is involved in doing anything successfully. Molly and Tahoe both emphasized the importance of doing what you love and surrounding yourself with people who both love you and push you. Molly gave me a little  thumbs up on that last part, giving validation to my directing and teaching philosophy. I mention it because it meant a great deal to me to have successful, functioning human beings thank me for being hard on them. You're welcome. I love you, too.

"Carlton", mentioned in a previous blog,  sat through the entire 80 minutes like he was suffering from shpilkes, his leg shaking constantly. When Molly started to wrap up, he suddenly thrust his hand into the air to ask a question. As I've said previously,his Theaco has truly rallied around him, and they all made sure Molly acknowledged his question, as he was seated out of camera shot (of course he was). He wouldn't speak up, however, so we made him stand in front of the camera so she could see who she was talking to. He looked directly into the camera and said "What is the best processed noodle product flavor for the end of the month?" We all withheld our laughter so Molly could be heard, but inside we were dying. I've said it before: Asperger's kids are the living embodiment of Absurdism.

Molly had fielded questions about college, agents, managers, sexual harassment, being a working actor, her dog and high school. She treated this question just like the others. She smiled, measured her options, and finally answered "Chicken, but chicken flavor, not with the chunks."

Carlton pumped the sky with his fist and smiled, and Theaco applauded as only people who know how to appreciate such weirdness can applaud. Molly giggled and asked "Was that the right answer?"

"It made Carlton happy, that's all we care about," I answered. She giggled again and seemed pleased she got it right.

Since we were winding down, anyway, another member of Theaco piped up: " Molly, according to your Wikipedia, you work a lot with Disney. Do they hire a lot of young actors?"

Again, Theaco erupted in laughter and applause. They appreciated that someone was owning what they were all doing, which was looking up/following Molly on various social media sites while talking to her on Skype. Kids today...

Even I learned a few things about my alumni:
Neither of these kids has a college degree.
They are both truly happy with their life choices.

Scene.

Letting Go

It seems so simple. I mean, little girls can belt it regularly and you can tell they mean it. They are ready to LET IT GO! They sing with wild abandon, sometimes wearing a green dress, sometimes sitting on their sister, sometimes into a hairbrush. Let It Go.

The Serenity Prayer asks for the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, to change the things we can and the wisdom to know the difference. "Change", in my life, means "control" and I really can't tell the difference.

See the thing is, I'm right. I'm  100 % of the time categorically and inarguably right.

Always.

It's a burden.

It's a gift.

It sucks.

It causes major anxiety, as I worry and pace because I know someone is making a stupid choice and they aren't listening to me and if they would only just listen and let me run their life it'd be so much better. Learn from my mistakes, I'm begging you! Please stop making your own.

This was only irksome in my twenties. At 52, and as a parent, it is positively debilitating. And my children, being my children with mini invisible mohawks but every ounce of that attitude, refuse to listen to me ever ever ever because they think I just have anxiety and that I am wrong, even though they have evidence to the contrary. Every time something went wrong, I knew it was going to go wrong and I gave them a heads up to avoid what I see and they chose, instead, to tell me to let it go!

Aaannnnnnd....I was right. Every. Freaking. Time.

And this time, this time I really have to walk away. Let it go.

It hath made me mad. Mad, I tell you. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, and I now understand why people say they "throw themselves into work to avoid their personal life." Well, I threw myself into my personal life to avoid the trauma of my work, only to discover that I have no idea who I am or what I want, and my children are stubborn, and I overlooked my personal life for years to throw myself into my work, which no longer exists so...

My definition of "support"  has apparently been tied to control. I had a principal (four principals ago....three principals ago...?) flat out laugh and tell me I was a control freak. She was addressing my approaches to teaching, and I was pointing out how student led my department is. And while she acquiesced to the later, she still claimed that I was a control freak, and I needed to let things go. I mistakenly thought she was talking about my teaching methods, but clearly she was calling me on something much bigger that I did not see at the time.

And so, as the universe is wont to do when you refuse to let go, it will do it for you. And it won't be pretty, it won't be subtle, it will be wrenching. I  first experienced this when I started teaching. I was holding on to a dead end but well paid job waiting tables, being a stay at home mom and generally doing nothing about a career. It was a routine and the money was good. Then, suddenly, and without warning...I was fired.

Well, shit.

Jim and I turned to one another and started quoting Dory in Finding Nemo.
   "Let go!"
   "How do you know it's going to be all right?"
   "I don't!"

So we did, and I embarked on a teaching career, that I thought would be my final career. Letting go was scary as hell, we worried about money, about how I could possibly work full time with the girls in first and third grade, but once we let go it just happened. The job at Littleton literally fell into my lap, and there you have it.

For the first few years the struggle was awful, but I loved teaching and building the department,and magically babysitters and rides just appeared to help manage the girls' schedules. I cried a lot, I screamed a lot, but I wanted to run the department, so I persevered.

I cite the first two years as hell and the next five as almost heaven.

I had complete control of the classes, IB Theatre, the shows, training actors and techies, training designers, hiring alumni to help with tech, everything. Then the administration changed, and the renovation ripped Maris apart from stem to stern and everything that was under my control...was no longer. Just like that.

Well, shit.

Fourteen years after letting go of what was and embracing the moment, I have been stripped of directing at the school, my stage is dead and my department as a whole is on the ropes. I've tried for a year and a half to hold it together with little success, manically waving my arms in an attempt to regain control. In the meantime, my beautiful and talented 21 and 20 year old children are embarking on their own lives, making their own difficult and beautiful and difficult life choices. And I look at them and become anxious and controlling and they need support, not control and it turns out...I have no idea what "support" means. I am looking to them, because I have lost control of my theatre and anything that was a career. It was taken from me, because I needed to let go (apparently, I'm still unclear in this area), and did not. So it was taken. And without directing and designing and building and producing and shopping and all of those things that go with running the department, I'm assigning four page essays to LA9 Honors freshmen that I then have to grade, and back to freaking out because my children will not let me run their lives.

But dammit, I know what's best.

This is why I am not, nor will I ever be, an adult.

I think adults have the serenity to accept the things they cannot control, to control the things they can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

In short, an adult knows how to Let It Go.

These are my thoughts,
respectfully submitted
K.Martin
Physically 52 years old but clearly not an adult.

Not My Finest Moment

Not My Finest Moment Post:
First, I have 65 LA 9 Honors Lit students. I am a theatre teacher.
Second, I have to smash my Acting 1 and Acting 2 into ONE period, two completely different syllabi...syllabuses.
Third, I work directing jobs outside because I am not allowed to direct inside.

I have 65 Of Mice and Men outlines and intro paragraphs to grade, as well as 3 plays by student playwrights and 12 Director's Notebooks, in addition to regular planning and IB deadlines. NOT complaining, Explaining.

An LA9H kid, who has done NOTHING so far for this essay, butted in line whilst I was sitting with other students---who were patiently waiting their turn--to go over their intro paragraphs. He then interrupted the student I was talking to ABOUT HER ESSAY, to demand if I read poetry. When I did not answer- because they know I do not answer if you have not waited your turn-he began to pace. (YES, there is an IEP involved but this is HONORS, people) When I did not give him the attention he wanted, he butted in again and said "I'm sending you my poetry, when can you read it?"

I stopped. I apologized to the delightful and patient young lady with whom I was working- on her assigned essay. I looked at the student who had interrupted.

And, before I could stop myself, I said "UGH".

Is it Thanksgiving yet?

The Millionth Colorado Native To Bitch About Traffic

 
      Jim and I tried to drive up to  see the colors change last weekend,but ended up having to come back early after stopping at the Conoco outside of Conifer where Every Old Person  Ever had to use the one functioning bathroom, so I  kept letting them go ahead of me. After ten minutes Harper was done--it's a delicate thing with Harper and timing---so we came back down and went to the pub. It was fine.
      So this weekend, we headed up without Harper---who is almost 20 years old,by the way--and  spent the day driving up to Guanella via 285 and back down I70. We got stuck in traffic on 285, twice. No deer in the road, no car accident, nothing. Just stopped. Because there were too many damned people on the road.
      I remember going up to see the leaves change as recently as five years ago, with little traffic until I 70. Which , frankly, has always been a shit show, even before The World decided they needed to live here.
      First, we, from Colorado, do not call it "Leaf Peeping". That sounds naughty. The first time I heard this term was from my Canadian friend. Then another friend from Vermont, or Connecticut, or some damned east place, also said it. We never had a cute little phrase, guys. When I was a kid "the leaves are changing colors" is what we said. "Let's go see the leaves change", or "Go see the colors", and we knew what that meant, and it sounded like what it was: watching nature change seasons.
       "Leaf Peeping", however, seems to have a naughty connotation, like we are spying on the leaves whilst they are showering. Ewwww.
       Last week on the morning news,  Ernie Bjorkman said "leaf peeping" and I lost my shit. That is not what we call it here, Erns, and you know that. Stop cowing to the foreigners who came here who think it needs a title. Honestly, if you're from a state that calls it "Leaf Peeping", I don't understand why you moved here. Your state it plenty pretty, I assure you, and is likely maintaining its beauty better than CO because not everybody needed to move where the pot was legal.
        Colorado is not the only state, guys, you can go to Washington which is also beautiful. Go muck up their air quality, drive up their property values and spray paint in their national forests and leave us  alone. We won't miss you because we don't need you. Shoo.
         So we come up the back way through Morrison, and then pick up 285 at Conifer. There are few cars along the way, once you get past the Puddle Park that is Morrison, and then through the Street Clog in Evergreen. It was nice, I felt like nobody knew about this road as we drove and enjoyed the fall air and view. Then we turned on to 285 at Conifer and were immediately in a traffic jam. Both confused and trying not to be grumpy, we hoped that a herd of deer had decided to cross the road, and that's why everyone was stopped. Remember Back in the Day, when you'd go to RMNP and everyone was stopped and pulled over because a herd of Elk had decided to stand in the road? And you happily pulled over, or stopped, depending on the width of the road, and got out and stretched your legs and smiled at your travelmates who were also stretching their legs and watching the Elk with a bemused  smile that said "God I Love This State", or they had their camera out, kids on their shoulders so they could see.
          Nope. It was a traffic jam due to traffic. That's all. Too many people on the road.
          The next jam was right outside of Bailey, just past the Old People's Conoco. Again, we sat, not moving on the two lane road, right past Coney Island, wondering what could possibly be holding everything up? Moose?  Deer? Elk? A UFO?
          Nope. Traffic for traffic.
          Made worse, of course, by a hundred cars pulling over to take photos but not pulling into a pull out, just stopping at the pavement edge. You're wrong, that's not how you do this. Find a pullout. Can't find a pull out? Then move back to where you came from. Before you moved here there were plenty of pullouts for all of us. Even the switchbacks on the back side of Bierstadt, before Georgetown, had cars just pulled over! ANOTHER SMALL JAM was caused because the descending cars and the ascending cars did not have enough room to pass one another, we had to pass one at a time because both sides of the hair pin turn were blocked with FUCKING CARS WHO JUST STOPPED and the people from the cars trying to dart across the road ("If you can dodge a car, you can dodge a ball.") to get their photos of the Aspen grove.
           The mountains used to be where you could go to lose yourself, to breathe and drive and have a sandwich. It's now a cluttered, clustered mess where you cannot lose yourself because you have to pay attention to other drivers, and you cannot breathe because you may hit some human being trying to waddle across the switchback, assuming that you will see them and stop.
          And pee before you leave and drink no fluids, the bathrooms are jacked.

Postcard to Houston

I lived on Planet Houston from 1987-1991 and attended the University of Houston. This is a moment from a much longer, rambling blog and is a melted crayon love letter to Houston. 

...

I had a friend keep me out of jail. I was in danger of going to jail because I went to South Padre instead of court. That is a story unto itself. I crashed on couches, lived in a warehouse, I lived with a grad student and her daughter as well as on the bay with Aunt Polly--this all after we sold our house and Jim returned to Denver. I stayed to work with Edward Albee and Jose Quintero. I learned mime from Claude Caux and acting from Ruddy Cravens, costumes with Claremarie Verhayen and my fellow writers, actors and directors at UH taught me daily. I feel such gushy love for that place and those people. I remember Amy's confidence, and Beth's talent, Curtis' laugh,and Peter's stoic realism. I remember Tracy, who wanted to be a teacher which I thought that was noble but stupid. She was so talented, why would she want to waste it on teaching?I remember Paul's wise and infuriatingly logical approach to everything and Chris' irrepressible enthusiasm. Albee's gravely judgment and Quintero's soft love. I watch every tropical storm and hurricane  and marvel at how much water that place can take on and keep going. As I watched Harvey do a sit and spin over Houston, I just kept shaking my head, thinking "Don't piss off Texas". There is  a photo of a woman in her neighborhood, knee deep in water holding a rifle. 

       I smiled. You pissed off Texas, didn't you, Harvey?

       The hurricane spun and when Houston realized it wasn't going to let up,  they lived the joke they're heard about red necks for years. Harvey challenged them, and Houston said "Hold my beer", and proceeded to combat the anger and fury the only way they knew how: with love. They gassed up their boats, opened their furniture stores to those who fled, sent their furniture trucks to those who couldn't get to the store, saved neighborhood animals and huddled with them in their attic, paid their employees even though they couldn't get to work--the stories are in the hundreds, and they aren't going to stop.

         When Katrina wiped out New Orleans, Houston took in the refugees.

         When Harvey hit Houston, Houston helped themselves. 

          When Jim and I arrived, newly burgled, having lost everything to ass hat thieves in Arlington, Houston took us in, patted us on the heads and said  "You're home now, you just sit on down. Hold my beer. Lemme get you some supper, have a drink, y'all. It's gonna be fine."

          I love that city and I love that state. 

    ....

Theatre Camp Stories (Two Different Camps)

July/Aug 2017

Today at a theatre camp: It was "goth" day, so everybody was in black. I laughed and said "Looks like a techie convention." A 13 year old girl, a veteran of the camp AND a student at a local "performing arts" school, batted her eyes at me and asked simply "What's a techie?

After I came to, I confirmed that she was not, in fact, kidding. The small circle that had gathered around my unconscious body were all mouthing the same question to one another "What's a 'techie'? Did she say 'techie?'"

I passed out again. This time, upon re entry, I sat in the middle of the circle and explained the word, like Jane Goodall communicating with the chimps. One girl perked up, "Oh, ya, them.Why do we need them?"
With all the snark and fire I could muster, I made eye contact with the ten year old who had spoken and responded, "Because without them you are naked, without makeup, standing in the dark on an empty stage, holding nothing."

Good thing I only have one day left at this camp.

So, last week of theatre camp for me. We're doing combat fairy tales, and a kid says "Let's do Shawshank Redemption, that's my favorite fairy tale."
Me too, kid.

These are late. It's fine. 101 Dalmatians Postcards;

*One of the students "snuck in", as he is only four years old and not old enough for the camp. We will call him Steve. Steve can read and write, which is helpful when rehearsing a show, but he cannot and will not sit still, learn choreography, focus, etc. Instead he crawls under chairs during music rehearsal, insists that it is snack time always, takes my cell phone and returns his score to the producer daily stating "I won't be back". Unfortunately, the next day he comes back. The final time he tried to take my phone I said "Steve, stop. This is my phone, I'm tired of telling you." He slinked back under the chairs and looked up at me and said calmly "I could ruin your life." The SM and Props mistress, who were seated next to me, burst into laughter.

One little girl knew her lines, just not where they went, even after being taught by yours truly what a cue line is. Sometimes she would say the line in the right place, sometimes she wouldn't say it at all, it was a new journey every time. When she finally got her costume, she would not leave her tail alone. Both performances she managed to pull her tail off of her body. What're ya gonna do? As a dalmatian, she was trapped in Cruella's vault, both nights holding her tail aloft in some sort of canine solidarity power pose. On the second night, she was quietly fidgeting with her detached tail, and sometimes remembering her lines, as Cruella said "Bash them over the head, I don't care", and her tail immediately shot straight into the air over her head. She seemed to be demonstrating Cruella's cruelty! Look! She will rip off our tails! Funny, but wrong. But funny. And she said her line, in the wrong place, which was "Shhhhh!". I was not the only adult who had a Norma Rae Flashback, imagining a silent Sally Field holding up her sign UNION.

A girl asked me why I don't get my phone fixed-it has a cracked screen. I said simply "I don't have the money." She replied, just as simply "Why don't you get a lemonade stand?"

The Science of Traffic

          I don't want to bitch about the traffic in Denver any more. We're now LA and it sucks. Scene.

          Since October of 2016, we have been owners of the fussiest, most glitchy car in the world. It is a 2010 VW Beetle. It was not a car we wanted, it is a car we blustered into when He Who Shall Not Be Named wrecked Harper's perfectly perfect Honda Accord. The insurance only gave us $5 grand for the pristine used car, so that's all we had to get another car. And the Bug was available and the right price. It was also at Auto Nation, who we now hate--DO NOT BUY A CAR THERE --and not Planet Honda who we love --BUY A CAR THERE.

          The standard behavior on this thing is to die. If it's too hot out: it dies. If it's stuck in traffic: it dies. It dies while in motion, and it remains dead if you wish to restart it. In the ten months we have had it, it has been in the shop more times than the cars we've had for ten years. However, the Cost The Most To Fix Prize this year goes to the 10 year old Chevy Silverado, who needed new spark plugs, new brakes, engine service and the engine blocks themselves have come loose, meaning we have to spend a thou to have it remounted. Super Exciting. 

           I spent this summer dealing with the cars. Some of it was maintenance: oil change, brakes, new battery. Some was major like the Chevy, and the Bug, who was first misdiagnosed by our now former mechanic, and then diagnosed correctly and inexpensively by an expert (again I sing the praises of Doug at Paddock Imports. He is my new best friend.)

            It was a fine way to spend my summer, and I was grateful for the timing. I wasn't "working" ( I work, but not 8 hours in a building) so I had time to schlep, save, rescue, retrieve. And by this comingThursday, all the cars will have been serviced, and fixed and braked and new tires on the FJ for Genoa. Also a perk, our credit has recovered enough for me to qualify for a real credit card that is now "The Car Card" for all of our servicing needs. In Gratitude: this could have been so much worse.

           I have never been a kid whose car died on the off ramp. Or on the freeway. Or on the hill…. or anywhere. The only time I have had a dead car was because it was hit by another car, or it was my Ford Escort, which didn’t really die in transit. It just didn’t always start or run well. Man that car was a piece of poo. When we finally saved enough money to trade it in for a new car, we had to take it in shifts. We drove it half way to the dealer the first day, and the rest of the way the second day. “Push, pull or drag” was their slogan. We pretty much dragged. The point is that I have never been sitting in a dead car with people blaring their horns around me. I am the kid who would pull over and help if your car died. It seems like the right thing to do.

           The first of the Bug’s incidents resulted in getting the clutch rebuilt. Then it started dying again, and Harp, who has nasty anxiety, just couldn’t take having an unreliable car in what was becoming an overcrowded, hostile city. Not the Denver she was raised in at all. Horns blared, people shouted, threw things at her and cussed her out because her car died. It’s hard enough to not panic when the engine sputters and dies, but then when nobody will help you...in fact, instead, they wish to attack you, it’s too much.

           And so, I had no choice but to drive the Bug, because two middle fingers and a Mohawk. And it started sputtering and dying and I had to restart it on the road. I was disappointed in the number of people who blared their horns at me, pulled up deliberately close to my bumper and then sharply whipped around my dying vehicle, while blaring on their horn. Or passed me while blaring their horns. Or flipped me off while blaring their horns. When the Bug died on Harp out by I25 and Arapahoe, someone threw a hamburger out their window at her as she stood by her dead car. Are you kidding me, people?

             It has never been proven by engineers that blaring your horn from a nearby car will restart a dead engine. Science has never proven that blaring your horn from behind a stalled car reignites a dead battery. Scientists are still investigating the effects of an airborne hamburger hurled at a stalled vehicle’s owner, but so far their results indicate that this approach does not restart an internal combustion engine, either.

            The moral code of humanity, however, does indicate that while, scientifically you may not be able to restart an internal combustion engine, you can slow down and see if the stranded motorist is on a cell phone and fetching help. You can stop behind them so that they can safely exit their vehicle. You can pull behind them and exit your own vehicle to ask if they need assistance moving their dead car to the breakdown lane. These choices take exactly the same amount of time and effort that slowing down to cuss out or hurl fast food takes. While none of these things will refire the dead engine, they will bring comfort to the human being whose day has just been jacked by a stupid machine.

          So my conclusion, after much personal research, is that those of you blaring your
 horns, do not believe in science, because you seem to think your horns, obscenities and hurled meat will help the situation. You appear to also not be very interested in being a member of the human race. Which is unfortunate, but at least now I know what we’re up against.

Nightmare 16 July featuring...

I’m in a large room doing PAA. The kids arrive -30 of them -and I realize it’s 7pm, time to go.  I look at Jenna for an explanation as to why they are so late and am I expected to do anything with no time, and she smiles and shrugs. So I shorten what I need to do, talk to the kids as I must and bolt, as I was supposed to be at my next job-waiting tables-by 7 and I’m clearly not going to make it. (Waking kryssi hates these time crunch anxiety dreams and usually I will wake myself up when I see them coming, but I was out cold.)On my way out I say to a PAA coworker “Why am I even trying, by the time I get home and dressed it’ll be past 8. No point in even going. And it’s my first day, they may not even notice.” Still I bolt. (A common theme in my time crunch dreams is multiple jobs, and I’m always running late.)

I do not have a car- a running theme both in my dreams and in life- so I run to the dock as my dream ritual is to catch rides on the back of delivery trucks. A massive long caterpillaresque semi turns the tight corner and the wind blows me over. The next truck pulls in and out before I can jump on the back, I try to jump but it pulls out too fast. Then realize I have my own car tonight. So I run to it and go to LHS. Not my wait job, not home, but LHS. Which is not physically LHS, it’s massive and the front looks a lot like my elementary school. I stop because I need something there but in my waking life, as I retell this, I couldn’t tell you what I thought I needed, I just drove to the school.

All doors are locked so I go in through the science rooms, where all the science teachers are having a big party, they’re clearly drunk and moving boxes everywhere and laughing. I just run through to the outside front, where I see beer bottles strewn on the lawn.  I call to the Sciences through the window “Ladies, you need to make sure you clean this up” and they howl and cackle. I get the feeling there is a bonfire in one of the science rooms.

 Then I realize lang arts is on the front lawn, down center, and Judy Vlasin and Diana Solis have joined them. I’m too far away to call down, and I’m in a hurry, so I keep running to the other side where the theatre is. As I go, Eric Pung leaps into lang arts from the front parking lot screaming “JUDEEEEEEE!!!!! I’m so glad you called me, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t you”. I want to stop, these are my favorite people, but I have to keep going. I am now in a full on crunch panic. As I pushed into the theatre entrance, a dog brushes past me on my left and runs in then disappears. It does not resemble any theatre I’ve been in in waking life, it’s my dream life theatre, which is all red in the lobby and curves and has multiple house entrances. I run back stage and the science teachers are there, this time Monty and a social worker are with them, and they are pulling furniture and boxes out of the props loft. I have to get OUT of the school at this point  as I am in a full panic,  so I ask without stopping what is going on . Monty replies---sheepishly and drunkenly---that admin told them they could have whatever they wanted. His box has a crown in it, the social worker is dragging a throne.  In my dream brain I know this has something to do with the budget and it makes sense to me, but angers me and I yell “Are you kidding? You’re stealing our furniture and props, we’re in the middle of a show!” but I’m running out to the back parking lot as I’m yelling, and I start to cry. Moving forward is more important than standing there and fighting.  My car is not in the back parking lot, though, it’s in the front lot, and I must run uphill to get it. Crying and angry and realizing I  have lost the waitress job, I run up the hill but it’s a nightmare hill, so the top never gets any closer. Then my feet get bogged down in the sidewalk and I can’t move, so I crawl. As I crawl the cement  rolls away from me, like loose carpeting, and I begin to scream and cry “God, can you give me a break? Can I just get a break, please? Help me!” and the crying becomes angry sobs as I continue to unsuccessfully make any progress to get anywhere.

Somewhere in my head I realize it’s 8 o’clock, and I should have stopped to talk to Judy. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I don’t stop trying to crawl and I imagine I’m making some miniscule progress. If I can get to the top, I think, I’m not getting in my car. I’m going to go talk with Judy. If I can just get there…

I scream again and wake up.

And topping off this crappy week we have....an audition story

   We got hit with nothing but car repair bills and medical bills this lovely week, and I was looking forward to my Saturday audition just to be distracted from  my financial realities. Also my career stall, but that's another story.
    I made the appointment back  in May, today is 1 July, and the notice said "all roles open", which I confirmed when I made the appointment. There are literally no other parts for me in this show, and frankly, I don't even like the show. This role just happens to be On My List. And, as I have said, I enjoy going back out there and reconnecting with the craft, while ignoring how much I hate the business. The last few auditions have been very positive, everyone is supportive and kind, or at least neutral and not cold. After such a nasty week, and knowing I did not actually have a shot at this gig as it rehearses during the day, I fantasized that they would offer it to me and I would have to decline. Or I would get brave and quit teaching so I could do it. One must have hope, right? Anyway, I nonetheless dutifully printed a color head shot, made up a resume* , found a song and put makeup on my face.
    I then drove 45 minutes on  day that I cannot really afford the gas (see above "car repair and medical bills") but I was feeling positive. My song is solid, I know I'm right for the part, it's a part I've wanted since 1982, I know it's a mostly equity house and they rehearse during the day, but I need some positive, man. I need to feel like I have something to offer. My career does not afford me that and I crave positive reinforcement. And every time I've gone out over the last year, everyone has been kind and supportive. I know this will be a good experience, and that's what I signed up for.
    I arrive, after overshooting the theatre and having to U Turn. It's been years since I've auditioned here. I'm not technically a musical theatre kid so I rarely venture out to musical auditions.
    I make friends with the pretty late twenties young lady adjusting her character shoes who is nervous that they may make her dance, and the young man who is hopeful that they don't want him to sing his whole song. Both express their delight that all roles are open and that the notice did not have any dance needed. Again: nice people. I like this, nobody's mean or rudely competitive. We have no idea how good the other is until after the audition, when everyone in the lobby has heard your song. But even then I've noticed, nobody's mean or judgey.
    I am escorted in. Director, Choreographer, Stage Manager, Accompanist and various others that nobody felt I needed to be introduced to. OK, that's fine. Hi, I'm kryssi.
    The accompanist smiles warmly and shakes my hand, introducing herself. I give her my music and there we go. She smiles and says "good luck", which is bad luck, but whatever, she's the nicest one in the room. Very grandmotherly.
     I nail my song. Dude. Nailed. IT. I've never done "When You're Good To Mama" before, and I need to do it always, it's perfect. And when you nail it,  you know it. YES, good job, good experience, just what I needed. I can read a room, and it went very well.
     The director says "The role of (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) has been cast. But...." he starts looking at my resume. "What is your dance experience?"
      I'm still trying to dissect that he didn't bother to email me and tell me the ONLY ROLE I'm right for is no longer available. I don't care why, I don't care if it was given to an equity actor, I care that I wasted my time on a beautiful Saturday afternoon to be told the role is not available and asked if I can dance.
      Also, he nailed my type immediately in the role. Meaning he knew my type and could have easily let me know it was cast before I drove 45 minutes to audition for him.
       I smile without sarcasm. "I teach tap to my intro kids." You wanna know my dance experience? That's it for 20 years.
       Silence. I stand there. Maybe they haven't really looked at me. For God's sake I practically limped up the three stairs to the stage due to my arthritic feet. I look like I need a walker, not like I have years of dance experience.
      "We need strong dancers." He is rummaging through my one page resume as if there are invisible pages somewhere--volumes, perhaps, detailing my extensive dance experience with Alvin Ailey and Cleo Parker Robinson. Somehow it's impossible that someone with my experience and pipes cannot dance. If he can find my dance experience, he can call me back as ensemble. Because I can sing, and I can act, and they need me. And the role I'm clearly perfect for has already been cast. But they need me to dance also so they can use me. Where is that additional resume, kryssi, with your tap dance classes, your drop in times at Cleo, and your jazz and modern in college? All of which combined is your "extensive dance experience." Gimme a break. I am "Schleppy the Clown" for a reason.
     I laughed. Also, I'm thinking, why are you asking someone who came to a singing audition if they can DANCE?  Singing only auditions are for leads, that's how it works. Look at me, dude. Do you not have eyes? Do I look like I dance? I look directly at the choreographer.  "I'm what you people call a 'mover.' I can be taught, I can, I have," and as every clown should do at this moment, I execute a time step. "I'm not a strong dancer, no. I'm not your kid."
       I choose to let it go. I can be mad or I can go home. I keep smiling  and say "Thanks. I'm coming back in after 20 years, thanks for the opportunity." And they all smile back and say "You nailed it."
       Fuck you and your sympathy for the sad old woman.
       UGH.
       'cause I DID nail it, I was awesome, that's my part bitches, you missed your chance. I'm just not a dancer. No shame in that.
       I descended the stairs without falling down and breaking a hip, and as I reached for my music the accompanist stopped me. "You're Kryssi from Littleton, right? Kmart? I was an AP at Arapahoe." I smile and am nice, because she is nice, but I have no memory of ever meeting this woman. And she does not look like a retired AP, she looks like a grandma. I wonder if I look as old as she does? Would they ask her if she has dance experience? Her gray hair and wrinkled face are looking at me for acknowledgement of some kind, so I smile and say "Yes, I'm kmart from Littleton." And again I'm struck by how small this town remains, even though I'm 45 minutes from home and an hour from Littleton, even in the face of the massive population explosion, theatre remains small.
        I realize as I exit the house that if this show had been a scheduling possibility for me, that if I wasn't teaching full time, I would have lied. I would have lied my face off, made my minimal dance sound maximal and worried about the truth at the callback. Because I'm an actor, and I can be taught. I can, I have. But there was no sense in lying when I really can't do the show in the first place.
        On my way out of the theatre, my young friend with the character shoes stops me. "You sounded so great! Did it go well?"
        "I thought so, but it was a waste of my time. (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) is already cast." I smile and shrug.
        The color drains from her face. I know from her type she was not auditioning for the same role as I, but if they've cast mine, they easily could have cast the one she was hoping for as well. Nothing kills your confidence like being misled. I told her to break a leg and left the building, sad that I may have caused her any grief. It's possible mine was the only role they precast. It's possible all the leads were precast. It's likely I won't be auditioning there again.
        This exact behavior is why I retired 20 years ago. It's frustrating when they hold auditions out of town, it's frustrating when they only hold local auditions so they can check the box that says "held local auditions" but they never use local actors, or only use them in smaller roles. It's frustrating when they precast and hold auditions, anyway. It's rude guys. All of this is rude behavior. If you don't believe in the talent this town holds, then stop inviting us to your auditions. Cast all of your shows out of New York. It's more honest that way. At least we are not given any false hope.
        So I came home and took a nap. Because I suddenly felt really old.
     

    * The issue is that it's been years, I can't remember all the shows. So under "special talents" I write "Forgetting everything that should be on this resume."

Say A Simple Sentence

   
         I'm sitting in the little wood grained, exposed brick coffee shop that shares a wall with a small indie thrift store. Everything feels like it did in the 1990's before Things Got Cray Cray in Colorado, until I look up from my computer at the construction workers outside of the car dealership. The dealership isn't new, this has been Dealership Row along Broadway here for years. But the construction workers make me nervous. They have a lot of steel cords. Their orange vests and giant spools give me PTSD. It is never good. It used to be I 25, which was constantly under construction, and then they finally "finished" it, only to have parts of it flood in the first big rain storm. Sigh. I love my state, but sometimes I dunno how bright they are. And this was before pot was legal.
         I like this stretch of Littleton, it reminds me of Denver. I was raised in what is now the Trendy Highlands. It didn't used to be trendy, and there was nothing heightened about it. Mom got us out after high school, and I went to Kansas for college. I know, freaking Kansas, right?  I loved that it was not crowded and felt safe. But I didn't stay, going to school there was fine but after four years I was ready to come back. I'm hanging in Littleton today after making sure mom is OK. We moved out here into a tiny, blonde brick house on a block of tiny brick houses near the elementary school. We don't have a garage, which is a weird thing for Colorado, but to us it was heaven. I live in Lafayette, which also used to be not trendy, but now they have a Bar Louie. Somehow in the last few years Boulder has just annexed Lafayette and Nederland. Oh well. At least we held on to our identities, it feels the same. and frankly, there's no where else to build.
     I come down every day during the summer to spend the morning with my mom, get her coffee and chat. She's not sick or anything, but her mind is starting to slip a bit. She's OK once she's up and around. Our neighbors have been on one side have been the same for years, and the new family that moved in on the other side has small kids that love to come over and play in her garden. She has this epic rose garden out back, it takes up most of the yard. The kids think it's a blast to come over and weed and water, and mom lets them pick their favorite rose to take home. They will choose before it blooms,and then check it every day until it's ready to be plucked and displayed in a tea cup on their coffee table.
         It's only ten a.m. and already it's eighty. Sheesh. The last few summers have been ridiculous. It's crazy hot and I guess we have hail storms now. It must suck to be any kind of construction worker in this state. Last summer I hung out up in Gunnison and Montrose, my cousin lives in Delta and I like to go visit her. There's no construction up there, nobody wants to live on the Western Slope or the Banana Belt. Coming back down it looked like Grand Junction had some growth going on. They have wineries now in addition to all the fruit. We use to joke about what a pit Grand Junction was back in the day, but now it looks freaking gorgeous compared to the steel and glass monstrosity that Denver has become. Every time I visit my cousin I threaten to move up there. But then, what would I do for a job? That's the catch. She works for social services, some kind of dispatcher. She has a nice little house and it's just so quiet up there. She said last year she bought a snow shovel because they got about an inch. An inch. Banana Belt, dude.
          My phone is going off. I look down, it's mom.
          "Hey, what's up?"
          "Something is wrong. I've called the ambulance but I wanted to call you in case," that's my mom, over communicating and making sure the entire planet has all the necessary information.
           "I'm on my way."
           I arrive at mom's house, the ambulance isn't there yet. No reason for it to have beat me, I was across the street. I let myself in and mom is sitting at the dining room table. Her driver's license and insurance card are on the table. There is also a handwritten note. I pick it up: My name is JW and I feel dizzy. Her meds are lined up next to the note.
            "Mom?"
            "I think I'm having a stroke but I can't be," she starts lifting both arms over her head "say a simple sentence."
             "The hell are you doing?"
             "If it's a stroke I shouldn't be able to say a simple sentence. Or to put my arms up level."
             "I'll call the ambulance off, I can take you."
             "No, I want the medics to see me before I leave the house. Nothing personal."
             I shake my head at her. She knows I was an EMT for ten years. Yet for some reason, that isn't medical training in my mom's eyes. I also work part time as a nurse in Boulder Valley Schools, but again, it doesn't count.
              "Mom, the ambulance medics have the same training that I do."
              "Yours is old,  you haven't done it in years. There's new technology and treatments."
              "Not for strokes there isn't," I sigh. I hear the ambulance drive past our house.
              "Will you go out in the walkway and make sure they know which house."
              I do as asked and wave down the ambulance. I give them the 411 on mom, her meds, her symptoms, her history. They're really young, these guys, I swear they get younger all the time. I'm only thirty, but these EMT's look like middle schoolers. One of them looks at me longer than the other. When I'm done and they unload the gurney, he smiles. "I know you. You taught anatomy at the massage therapy school, didn't you?"
                I nod. "One of my many gigs, yep."
                "Steve," he shakes my hand. I realize that if he was in MT school when I was teaching, he has to be at least 28. "Your stories are one of the reasons I became an EMT."
                 "Did you dump massage?"
                 "Not even remotely, I do that part time on my off days. I love it."
                  We enter the house together, and my mom looks at me. "Are we done flirting now? Can it be about the woman having a stroke?"
                    ____________________________________________________________
             
                   At the ER, mom continues to raise her arms and repeat "say a simple sentence", much to the nurse's amusement. They get her hooked up and settled and she asks me where her meds are.
                  "I put them in your purse. When the doc gets here we'll give them to him."
                  "If he ever gets here, how long have we been here?"
                  "Twenty minutes."
                  "This is an ER? Nobody's here, where are the nurses? Where's the doctor?"
                   I shrug. She isn't going to like my answer based on her politics, so I just shrug.
                   "Say a simple sentence. It wasn't a stroke, I didn't have a stroke."
                   The nurse enters. "We have you in line for a CAT scan, it may be about an hour."
                   "Is this an emergency room? An hour for a CAT scan? I could die."
                   The nurse runs more diagnostics, asks her questions, checks her head and eyes. "The specialist on call is in the building, hopefully he will be down in the next half an  hour."
                   "This is an emergency room? In the suburbs? This is as bad as Denver General used to be. I do have insurance."
                     The nurse warily smiles and takes mom's blood pressure.
                    "I have to go the bathroom," my mom states. She's only 68, but right now she sounds 80.
                    "Let me unhook you," the nurse begins to adjust the IV so mom can wheel the bag with her.
                    "I'll walk you down," I volunteer.
                    When we get back from the restroom, the room is empty. I get mom resituated with her IV.
                    "Where are my meds?"
                    "In your purse. I've told you that twice now. You don't remember asking?"
                    "Say a simple sentence. How long have we been here?"
                    "Forty minutes."
                    "This is an ER?"
                    This same conversation, almost verbatim, repeated over the next two hours. The nurse came in twice in that time, both times assuring us that the specialist was in the building.
                     I looked at the nurse, "This is America, right?" referring to the ridiculous amount of time we have been waiting to see a doctor.
                     At hour four, the Doctor appears. He asks her to say a simple sentence.
                     He asks her to raise her arms simultaneously.
                     He says there is a line for the CAT scan and it will be about an hour.
                     He then left.
                     "Where are my meds?"
                     "I gave them do the Doc when he came in. You watched me do it."
                     At hour five they arrived to take mom to the CAT scan.
                     They brought her back and thirty minutes later, the doctor reappeared with a clip board.
                     "Well the CT scan doesn't show any abnormal bleeding, but we need an MRI to tell. The ER does not have an MRI, but you should schedule one down at the Franklin location as soon as possible. Or we can admit you for the night, and do an MRI upstairs in the morning."
                       "Let's do that, please. I'd like to know if my mom had a stroke."
                       "Allright, let me put in the request."
                       Thirty minutes later, another nurse--shift change--appeared to tell us that the hospital is full and there are no beds available. We will have to wait here in the ER for a few hours for a bed to open.
                        "Or, we can go home and schedule the MRI at Franklin," I say.
                        She nods sympathetically.
                        "Mom, you wanna stay?"
                        "Nope, this is ridiculous, are we in Russia? Am I not an insured American citizen?" I start to laugh, because usually this is my role. Whatever has happened to mom's brain has changed her personality, at least for the moment. "How long have we been here?" she asks me, looking at the clock as if it's Greek text.
                         "Five hours."
                          My  mom looks at the nurse. "Clearly I am fine, let me out. Say a simple sentence."
                          As I put mom in the car, she loses consciousness. Like a ragdoll, she just slumped. I ran back in and got the attendant.
                         She had an aneurysm. The doctor said "There is no way we could have seen it coming."
                         I replied "That sounds like a simple sentence."
                         

Fiction
 22  June 2017

fruit salad

 The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect anything.

 When I was going to school on Planet Houston, I was fortunate to have a few magnificent people in my life. One of them was Paul. Paul was kind, Paul was funny, Paul was a fellow playwright. Paul was a rare bird with his own house. Paul paid my bond to keep me out of jail when I went to South Padre instead of court. Paul is still my friend, and is now a fellow educator, and he has no recollection of this tale. Which is a damned shame, because I tell this at parties and it kills. And for some reason I tell it in the present tense.

 Paul invited Mr. Albee over for dinner. Mr. Albee accepted, and let Paul know that he drinks only Caffeine Free Diet Coke and eats skinless chicken breasts. So Paul did all the shopping and cooking, and invited me over, saying he was too nervous to be alone with Mr. Albee. I have no money to contribute to the meal, so he asks me to bring a six pack of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. That I can do. The six pack plus the gas to get to Paul's eat my budget for the week, but it's worth it. I am in Mr. Albee's class with Paul, but I would never have the balls to ask him to dinner! I did have lunch with him once at the school cafe, he wanted to chat more about my play. He told me when we arrived that it was his treat so "eat well, dear".

 When I arrive Paul greets me and looks grumpily at the six pack. "That's all you brought?"
 "That's all you asked me to bring." I do feel bad, but I honestly am stone broke, I barely have gas to get home from dinner.

  Flustered and annoyed that nobody on the planet is helping him, he returns to the kitchen. I hover and ask if I can do anything? He says something but I can't hear him, so I just fluff pillows and clean off the coffee table. He comes plowing out of the kitchen clutching a salad bowl. He shoves it into my face.
   "Does this salad look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl. There is no fruit.
  "No."
  "No, look. You didn't look. Does it look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl again. I look up at him and declare "tomatoes." Tomatoes are technically a fruit, right, they have seeds? Is that the game? I don't understand the game, and poor Paul is almost hysterical.
 "Dammit, kryssi. Look at it. Does it look FRUITY?"
  I am so confused and hurt that I seem to be making Paul's night much worse than it needs to be. So I really look deeply into the salad he is holding out to me.
  "Cucumbers."
  "KRYSSI!"
  "PAUL! There is no fruit in this salad. What are you asking me?"
  "Can you tell a faggot made this salad?"
  There is no other option but to laugh. To gufaw. To barf humor. As I begin to do all of these things, I look into my friend's frenzied eyes. He is hosting a dinner in his tiny house for a man he worships. A man who has three Pulitzers, Tony Awards and a Kennedy center, as well as a string of other awards.     He is a Big Deal. And Paul is making him dinner.
  I put my hand on Paul's wrist and hold his eyes."Honey. It's a salad. All he requested is no dressing. He is not going to judge your sexuality on your salad making skills." I allow a smile "Also, honey, he's gay too. Remember?"
 We maintain eye contact for a moment, and I see a moment of peace click in Paul's blue eyes. Then he huffs and clutches the salad to his chest. "Shit, it's faggy, it's  a fruity salad." He stomps back into the kitchen and slams the bowl down, turning his attention to the skinless chicken breasts and mumbling. "Skinless chicken is pretty gay, isn't it? "

I can't.

EPILOGUE  The dinner for Mr. Albee was successful. We ate on the couch with our plates on our laps, as Paul's tiny little table could hold only the food. Paul made Mr. Albee watch A Fish Called Wanda because....I don't know why. Mr. Albee had never seen it and Paul insisted it was the greatest movie ever made. Mr. Albee had to leave "early" as he was meeting  his manager for drinks, but he was phenomenally kind and gracious. Best quote of the evening:
   Paul had a computer game called "Sim City" where you built a city, and then a giant dinosaur creature destroyed it. Paul walked Mr.Albee through the game, and Mr. Albee growled "What's the point?" He was not unfriendly, Mr. Albee just growls, that's his voice.
    Paul, shocked, did not hesitate. "To build a city and have it destroyed."
    Mr. Albee "Why bother with the city? Just release the beast."
    Paul "But then what does it destroy?"
    Mr. Albee "Why does it need to destroy anything?"
    Paul "That's the game."
    Mr. Albee "Again I ask, what's the point?"

I sat on the couch watching this exchange. Watching the gleam in Mr. Albee's eye and admiring his ornery questioning. Paul twitched and sputtered and I felt badly for him, but not for long. We were used to being grilled by this man about our plays. He would sit you in front of the class and fire questions at you, demanding answers for "why" you made the choices you did. And if you couldn't take it, well then, maybe you should get out of playwriting. Paul handled defending his play beautifully in class, but in his own home he sputtered when asked "why" about a computer game. A game he did not even create. 

Poor Paul. I asked him if I could write about this and blog it. He said he has no memory of the evening, so it's fine. It was likely too traumatic to commit to memory. I'm glad I was there to record it for him, now he has a record of making dinner for a Great Man.