John Denver and GTA5

31 December 2013

   No end of year reflections for me.
   I just need to burn off some blogs, it's been a while and I'm behind.

   Today's topic is John Denver.
   I grew up listening to specific vinyl records my mom had:  Elvis---specifically Blue Hawaii which was on blue vinyl and we weren't allowed to touch. The Everly Brothers, who I credit with my love of harmony. The Smothers Brothers, who are the source of my early understanding of humor along with my dad's extensive collection of K-TEL 40 Funky Hits. The Carptenters, God Bless Karen Carpenter, everyone could sing along in her vocal range.
    And John Denver.
    In addition to the vinyl exposure, my mom learned to play guitar. In my memory, she learned it from a PBS show, like the guy who teaches you to paint. But  mom learned to play guitar. She would sit in front of the TV with her guitar and follow along. I'm told by mom that my memory is "weird", so that may or may not be accurate in reality. I also remember her watching a show about a guy who could bend a spoon with his mind and trying it in our kitchen. Anyway, she played guitar a lot, and part of the 1970's Guitar Club Membership  was to know songs by John Denver.
    I know every song by heart. I know the harmonies and even though I haven't picked up a guitar in years, I could probably figure out the chords.
    When my own children were small, I played neither the guitar or John Denver. I blasted The Beastie Boys as we pulled into the elementary school parking lot, and the girls developed a personal love for Queen, specifically Bicycle Races, and for Jane's Addiction- the song they called "The dog barking song." They needed more variety than just the XM kids station, however, thanks to XM Kids I still listen to John Lithgow's children's songs. "Big kids scare the heck out of me, big kids scare the heck out of me, whenever I see them gosh oh gee....big kids scare the heck out of meeeee."
    When we moved out of civilization and away from our walking distance preschool, park, library and coffee shop, I realized that suburbia has no place to walk to that is cool. So we started driving to Evergreen a day or two a week, for no reason. It was pretty. We found what we decided was a marmot playing in the creek and named him Ted. The following summer we discvoered Ted had a friend, so we named her Tina. Fourteen years later and we still refer to driving to Evergreen as "going to visit Ted and Tina."
    Part of the gig on the drive was to listen to John Denver.
    I am unsure how this came about, but it made sense and the girls enjoyed it. Drive to see Ted and Tina, listen to John Denver. Life was simple.
    Yesterday, the girls and I decided to drive to Evergreen. I said "for no reason" but of course it was to see Ted and Tina, even though it is winter and they are not home.
     Genoa was riding shotgun and therefore was DJ. I asked about John Denver and got a flat "No, I don't have him on my phone."
     But on the return trip, Harper was DJ and Country Roads began to play. I smiled and she said "You tube".
     All the way home she played John Denver and all the way home we sang along.
     My children know all the words.
     And I have the harmonies so drilled into my head I can't even try to find the melody line.
     And sitting in the backseat, singing along, was Genoa.
     Harper kept turning up the volume, and I thought she wanted to blast John Denver as we descended from Evergreen, but I think the truth is she was trying to drown me out.

      Last night, while Genoa was at a friend's house and Jim and I were watching Breaking Bad, Harp curled up in her chair and started playing her "Hookers and Cars" game (she got Grand Theft Auto 5 for Christmas. This is an amusing and entertaining game when you have the correct demeanor. Harp has the correct demeanor).
      I thought I heard strains of John Denver floating down the stairs, barely audible over the sounds of hookers and stolen cars and gunshots --her game, not Breaking Bad. I came upstairs and looked at Harp, who smiled sheepishly. "What?"
     "Do I hear John Denver? With hookers?"
     "No." Smile. Back to the game. Puts hand over phone playing Rocky Mountain High. Runs stolen vehicle into a lamp post.

     Harper plays guitar. She's been playing since the second grade. But John Denver is not played on her guitar, he is played during botched car theft attempts (Harper is terrible at this game, she runs the cars into cement walls and alleys, mows down pedestrians and spends more time dressing her character than is befitting a car theft professional).
    And also he is played during car rides to Evergreen, to get a coffee at Java Groove, check the stream for Ted and Tina. That is also when John Denver is played.

    



   

My Life Would Be Better If I Could Wear Heels With Jeans

             I have had stupid arthritis in my feet since high school. Even then I wore wrestling boots or combat boots out of comfort, not fashion. I had to wear red pumps for Anything Goes and it almost killed me. I would force my feet into those shoes on show nights, and occasionally on school days, masking the crippling pain they caused and trying to look like I belonged in a ZZ Top video.
              Except those women did not grimace.
              My mom had my grandma's old 1940's  and 50's patent leather and suede pumps that I would wear periodically.  I believe shoes were just made better in those decades, I had no issues in any of the pumps. Maybe because they were a size too big so I could manage, and the black suede 1950's kitten pump looked freaking awesome with my pink leopard print pants. I loved those shoes, I wore them until 1987 when they were stolen along with everything else I owned...but that's a different story (burn in hell Arlington, Texas).
              I have long been an admirer of the jean/heel combo. From wedges and bellbottoms to pumps and Brittanias to Karen Walker's suits, I just know that if only I could pull off that look,  my life would have turned out much differently. And by "different" I mean "better".
               In high school I could wear the combo for a day. In college I wore wrestling boots or tennis shoes or capezio jazz shoes because that's how a theatre major rolls. When I started teaching 10 years ago, I tried again to wear a heel, but I couldn't make it from 146 to the copy room without my gait significantly slowing and my posture shrinking until I looked like an 80 year old. Just give me a cane.
                I have given in to Stacy and Clinton's love of pointy toed flats, hoping that will throw people off and they will think I am fashionable. However, for a pointy toe to work on me with my swollen toe joints, they have to be a half size too big, causing me to clip-clop along like a horse. So I don't look or sound so much fashionable as I am,in fact, galumphing and I sound like a Monty Python sketch.
                Even my Doc's have started to cause me pain! No! Punk rockers do not die, but they do get arthritis. I have tried to buy flat boots the last few years, and regardless of the cushy Gellin' Like Magellan insoles I still only make it about ten feet before I start limping.
                 And barefoot is just Right Out, I walk on the outsides of my feet causing delightful balance issues. If I teach mime or combat barefoot, the kids think I'm drunk. So I got that going for me.
                Of course my Arthritis Shoes, Teva sandals with a tread, are the only thing I can comfortably wear besides tennis shoes. And apparently, tennis shoes are out  unless you are 80 or a gym teacher.
                Then there are my tap shoes.
                Why in all Blue Perfect Heaven do I continue to teach tap in my Intro classes?
                It hurts to put the the shoes on, it hurts walk in the shoes, it is excruciating to time step in them and after two, nintey minute classes back - to -back I have to pry the things off of my swollen, weeping feet AND ice my inflated knees, because I am 80 and my knees are bad as well as my feet...and my hands, I also have arthritis in my fingers, but that's not today's lesson. I do not use my fingers to tap dance.
               None of these things would bother me if I could just show up for school wearing a cute pump and a dark wash, designer jean. I would  look fabulous and put together and nobody would know about the arthritis.
               Okay, granted, I can Show Up wearing a cute pump and a dark wash designer jean, technically, yes. I just cannot climb out of my FJ and up the dock stairs in any fashion that is timely and does NOT look (and sound) like Yoda.

               Hold on hold on...waitwaitwait...
               Arthritis gets me Yoda status?
        
              Who needs pumps and denim?  Gimme a cane!
               I will stand in 146 at lunch and say "How you get so big eating food of this kind?"
        
              Yep. That is what is happening. I'm good.

              Happy Thanksgiving.
   
            

Postcards

Carrie Fischer wrote a lovely novel called Postcards From The Edge. Occasionally I steal that idea, as well as a phrase used once on Will and Grace "You look like an insane housewife from one of the square states."

Together they create "Postcards From A Square State Mom". Which, for a while, was what I called random email posts. Back when "mom" was what I did with most of my time. Before I added "teacher" to my lengthy hyphenated title. Anyway, it gives me an excuse to write in non sequitors.

 As we were driving to our condo yesterday, Jim asked if he was turning on the correct road. I said "Yes, it's  by the hospital". Because when you have children and you are staying out of town, you know where the nearest emergency room is.

  Lucky for us we have managed to avoid out of town emergency room visits. But driving by the glowing EMERGENCY sign brought back a memory of my own, an "emergency" room at Littleton Porter Adventist Joke Building.

  Almost sixteen years ago I blew my MCL and ACL while skiing in Loveland. The girls were babies---Harp was only 4 months old and G was almost two years old. I have never been a skier. I skied because Jim skied and I wanted to spend time with Jim. I was never very good at it, and unlike when I am rollerblading I took my sweet time, toddling along, chatting with the bunnies and enjoying the scenery. Nonetheless, I still managed to snap ligaments right in half. They sound like gunshots when they go off.

  I had a lovely schlep down the mountain being toggled along behind a Rescue Skier, bound up like a mummy and annoyed as hell. Also there was pain, my knee hurt.

   For some weird reason, when we came back into town the Littleton Porter Joke Hospital was where we went. I think it was because the Real Porter on Downing is such a great hospital and we'd had  success there when my appendix e'sploded, we thought these guys would be equally as magnificent and they were right off of C470.

    The emergency room was a regular  office type waiting room, square and carpeted and quiet. There was a guy before me, and then me. There was no "emergency" in the receptionist's demeanor, and I sat quietly with my leg packed in ice and waited my turn. As Jim and I sat  alone (once the guy before went in), a mom and her son came blasting in the doors. She was out of breath, and her son's hand was held high in a bloody towel. I was surprised at first at her Emergency entrance, I had forgotten that I was not in a regular doctor's office. She babbled to the receptionist about her son slamming his finger in a filing cabinet (maybe?) at school. The kid was trying to hold it together but he was in a lot of pain, and he was bleeding in what seemed to me to be an Emergency Type Manner, and the mom was beside herself.

    And the receptionist could not be moved out of her current speed of "Who Gives A Crap?"

   As it was an emergency room, I couldn't help but be confused by the fact that they made the mom and boy sit down and wait. There was literally nobody in the place but me, and adult with a semi emergency, and it did say "EMERGENCY" clearly on the door. The Hell?

     As the mom sat trying to calm her son's crying, Jim and I sat rather dumbfounded at the Utter Lack of Emergency Behavior that was happening.

     After what seemed like an eternity, the receptionist came out and called my name and said "You're next."

   I looked at Jim and the same thought crossed our eyes "The fuck I am."

   I shook my head and pointed at the bleeding boy. "He's first."

   The receptionist actually looked annoyed, then shrugged her shoulders.

   The mom lost what little control she had left and started weeping. She thanked me as she ushered her shattered son into the back room, where I can only suspect there were doctors. Based on the waiting room I began to wonder if there were just shoemakers back there.

  The mom made me feel heroic, which was not okay. She and the boy should have been taken back immediately, without question, without paperwork or discussion or waiting.

   I'm just saying. The Hell?
_____________________________________________________________________________

48

 Tonight at 10.10 pm I will be 48 years old.

 Every year I receive a large amount of Facebook Happy Birthday posts, and every year I am surprised that anyone remembers my birthday.

 And then I remember that Facebook harasses you into remembering birthdays. You are reminded , weeks ahead of time and  reminded and reminded and reminded....
 
   So I don't believe it is that so many people remember my birthday as it is that so many people are reminded it's my birthday. I have two friends in Canada who are not on Facebook who remember every year. I find the fact that they remember my birthday without a daily Facebook prompt to be impressive.

 I, on the other hand, am terrible about remembering birthdays without Facebook. My dear Canadian friends remember my birthday without fail, and all I can manage is that theirs are both in January. Or maybe one in January and the other in February. I send a card or note Mid January that generally covers Birthday Month(s) Love kryssi The Douchebag. Because I truly cannot remember dates.

  I blame my dyslexia, because I am an American and surely this cannot be my fault. Numbers swim and dance and turn on their heads and switch places, it's virtually impossible for me to remember a date of any kind, except the year Shakespeare died because A) it's repetitive and B) it was my address on South Grant Street.

  My particular brand of rude is uniquely disrespectful, as I have spent many birthdays depressed and sad that nobody -except my family-remembered it was my birthday.

  Make no mistake, I set it up that way. I never actually told people when my birthday was. I thought that was pushy and needy. So I wouldn't give anyone my birthdate but I would then spin out in depression when nobody magically knew it was my birthday. See how I set that up? Genius!

 That brilliant ploy was destroyed when I signed up for a Facebook. I didn't realize that they would log my birthday into the Facebook Internet Place In Space and pull it up every year, popping in on my friends and reminding them that if they do not leave a salutation on my wall they are not good friends.

  Strangely, I am not opposed to this practice. In the last few years I have discovered that I enjoy having people post Happy Birthday on my wall, or hurling adjectives or even sending a message. It's positively...positive. I am unfamiliar with that notion. But I am slowly becoming accustomed to it .

 I also uncovered a deep seeded joy in being reminded of others' birthdays. I like typing "happy happy joy joy" on various walls, and remembering a moment or a phrase that the person and I shared. It's nice.

  And I hope that when they post a simple "Happy Birthday" on my wall, the same thing happens for them. They remember a moment, hear my voice in their head or smile at the remembered image of me flopping around on stage or waving my arms or falling on my ass in the mud. 'cause that's a thing that happened. The dog pulled too hard on his leash and it broke. It Was Not Amusing.

  I like to say I keep Facebook because it's the only way to retrieve show photos, or to keep in touch with people who are in other states--but NOT other countries because Brad and Dawn refuse to play. But I think I keep it so that once a year, 40 people or so fly by my wall and remember me, and say "hi".

    It really is all about me! Who knew?

Cougar High

   Last week, I wore my University of Houston shirt to school.
   I do this periodically. Sometimes it's "College Week" at school, and the counselors think the kids enjoy seeing us wear our college gear.
    Sometimes it's tech week, and I don't want to wear real clothes.
    This was tech week.
    There are Things That Happen when I wear my red UH Cougars long sleeved shirt.
    One thing that Always Happens is a counselor will pass me and he always says "Cougars, huh?" and raises his eyebrows at me in an upsetting, suggestive manner. No. I am Not A "Cougar", pervo, I work in a high school. I was a Cougar at UH. Stop It. Why do you always do that?
      Second, a security guard always tells me that Andre Ware is now an announcer for ESPN or something, "Biggest disappointment in drafting history" he says. I smile and say "Yes, I was there when they called the Astrodome 'The Ware House'. But I was in theatre so I really didn't so much care."
     And third, the kids are impressed that I am wearing an out of state college shirt.
     What never happens is any sort of warm fuzzy memories of UH.
      Until this week.
      Without going into the details of my children's health struggles and the stress of teaching 6 classes while directing a show and juggling IB and Thespians and the million other little details of everyone's life, it was a long week.
       I wore my UH shirt largely because I felt fat and I don't have anything else that hides my Bingo Arms.
       As I sat in rehearsal, using Stanislavski as a last ditch attempt at getting the actors to get past their fears and perform Oscar Wilde, I was hit with a quote from Stephen King.
       I hear Stephen King's voice in the moment. In The Body, the story Stand By Me was based on, there is a line: "I never had friends again like I did when I was twelve. Who does?"
       Understand I am beyond tired. So the line hits me and I just follow it, because maybe it will lead somewhere, and the moment my actors are on stage stomping and crying, they don't need my attention.
       I followed the quote to the University of Houston --1988-1991ish. The Lobby of the Wortham Theatre.  I tell the kids I was a theatre major because the theatre was by the parking lot, and the medical school was too far to walk.
       While my actors face their fears, I realize I am inadvertently confronting one of mine.
        I went to school with some great, talented people. Many of whom came in together and left together.  They still talk, they are still connected, they are still friends.
        I still speak to exactly two people I went to UH with. I am connected with a few more, but for the most part, Martin and Paul are it, and it's infrequent and facebook based.
         Sure sure, older, families, careers, sure.
        But that's not it.
        They do not remember me.
        And I will be damned if  that isn't a fear I did not even know I had.
        These are people who meant the world to me. Whose talent I worshipped and whose acceptance I craved. A few of them actually relocated  to Denver and had no idea I was even here.
         Talk about a fear becoming a reality.
         These people fed me, literally, because I could afford to spend only $32.00 every two weeks on groceries. Paul paid my Bail Bond and never expected to get it back again (it was with great pride that I paid him back the day before I moved back to Denver). I felt loved, I felt accepted and supported and I belonged.
           I belonged.
           But I had to leave early. I did not graduate with them. I had to move back to Denver when the money ran out.
           And outside of a single  magnificent answering machine message they left me during a cast party, in which Edward Albee asked "What is she doing in Denver?" I never really heard from any of them again.

          I know a lot of people love college and their roommates and they make friends for life and blah blah blah. But I was NOT a traditional student. I was 21 when I started at UH, I transferred as an English  major. I worked a full time job and had a fiancé. I never lived on campus. Yet these guys embraced me, anyway. Only in theatre would a weird fuck up like me be allowed to hang with the lobby rats.

        I did not want this to go this way. I did not set out to whine about The Good Old Days or to wrap myself in a memory and refuse to come out.
         I have no idea why I started this.

         Fear.
         Right.
         Most people know they will be remembered.
         I fear being forgotten.
         And when I look back on UH, my fear is confirmed.
         All of those beautiful faces, their talent and pain and joy and personalities that I remember, that influenced me, helped mold me, fed me, threw me a going away party...have forgotten who I am.

         And Fuck if that does not Suck.
         The Stanislavski exercise demands that you face the fear and conquer it, then walk away victorious.
          I suppose that is what I intended to do by writing.
          Confront. Conquer.
         
         Thank you Paul for keeping me out of jail because I was in Padre instead of going to my court date.
         Thank you Deb and Mike and Jason for feeding me when I couldn't feed myself.
         Thank you Daria for allowing me into your world and for walking down the beach with me and that damned gorgeous neon bathing suit you wore. And for loaning me the other one with the middle cut out.
         Thank you Martin for loving me and being my friend and for making me feel like I had something to contribute to the theatre. And for Padre and hanging on the hammock.
          Thank you Chris for being positive, always, no matter what.
          Thank you Cyndie for your quiet wisdom and the words "You can go now, what does UH have to offer that you haven't gotten yet?"
           Thank you Curtis for being Sam.
           Thank you Craig for your gorgeous free spirit and magnificent hair.
           Thank you John (My god, how embarrassing, I think your name was John) you were a friend of Cyndie's and always so fucking kind and supportive of everyone, always, and I'm a dick for being unsure of your name.
            Thank you B. Dalton Wes, David, Diane, Larry--you guys provided sanity and balance and never, ever called me on being a dick even if I was a dick.
             Thank you Aunt Polly (RIP) for letting me live in your house when Jim moved back to Denver.
             Thank you Nellie for allowing me to live in your crazy ass warehouse bay when I moved out of Polly's.
             Thank you Joel Orr for sitting in a lawn chair inside of CSAW and telling me I was a beautiful juxtaposition in the artist warehouse whilst slurping your disgusting green liquid.,
              Lauren the playwright, Rene the mime, Beth who go-go danced on the weekends despite her feminist agenda, My fellow Numb Nut Twin (we couldn't build a window flat by ourselves) Andrea who bartended and whose smile I still see to this day...all of you. ALL OF YOU.

              You may not remember me, but I will never, ever, forget you. Everyone who ever gave me a ride (Paul's roommate who drove a mail truck),  bought me food for my birthday, allowed me to remain employed, cast me, shared a drink or a moment or a stage or a sewing machine.
              I never had friends again like I did when I was at UH.

              YOU will not be forgotten.
              So knock that right off of your fear list.

Aaaaaaaaannnnnnnnd we're back!

     9.16 PM Friday, 23 August. The evening of the last day of the first week of school.
     Holy crap that was a long week.

     Summer was short. It was way too short. I was not ready to come back.
     But I did, and within the first week: A parent complained about a suggested (I would like to point out it was a SUGGESTED) movie for actors to watch because they are actors who should watch other actors -warranting a MEETING, another parent scheduled a meeting for BLAH BLAH BLAH privacy BLAH, I had a MEETING to explain How Auditions Work and By The Way Auditions Are Monday, and I actually taught Oedipus for the first time. Usually I say "read the play" and we then spend time on stage learning about Greek performance and doing funny dithyrambs and, sometimes, I make them write their own Greek piece in iambic hex (which is pretty hilarious), but I actually stood in front of the class with chalk and danced around drawing tripods and explaining Apollo and the Oracle and By The Way Oedipus' children are also his sisters and THAT doesn't upset parents but suggesting current movies DOES?
      I am so happy to be watching Drunk History and drinking my wine right now.
      Keep in mind this is wine and Drunk History AFTER I spent two hours at the Ironworks with Jim.
      Who is, by the way, being very patient with me and my crazy.
       Remember at the end of last year (because you have been following my blog diligently) when I was like "Imma make rules, kids suck and stuff."
       So I did.
       I tightened up access to the classroom and my office, killed Improv club and ...it's very, very quiet in my world now.
       Who knew?
        I have invited kids in the morning, they still have cubbies and lockers and a fridge and such. But man lunches are AWESOME quiet, and nobody messes around during their off hour.
        I get why Kron never let them in except for class.
        And I kinda miss them a bit, but not much. The current seniors who hang out are really delightful people, I never had issue with them in the first place. And they responded beautifully to the new rules with no whining, no bitching and no trying to find cracks in the foundation.
         But still, I'm so tired! My entire house is not sleeping. Is anyone else having this issue? It's like we sleep but we aren't rested.
         It bites.
         So even though the new rules seem to be working, and I seem to be teaching instead of bitching at A**holes for breaking my computer or interrupting my class, it was still a very long week.


            Sigh.
            We'll see how next week goes.
        
       
     

Which of These Things Do Not Belong Together? kryssi and Boettcher. Scene.

   In the immortal words of David Byrne, I spent last night wondering "How did I get here?
   See, the Boettcher Scholarship is given to 40 kids statewide every year. They receive a full ride to all 4 years at a Colorado school.
    I was not in the running for a Boettcher in 1984 when I barely graduated from GMHS.
    Frankly, I'm not even sure I knew what "The Boettcher" was outside of a concert hall and a very rich Colorado family.
    Each student then is asked to choose one of their teachers to receive a $1000.00 grant for their department.
    I'm going into my 10th year at LHS, and I recall 3 Boettcher scholars in that time. I have no doubt there were others, but I didn't know them.
    Last year's scholar told me about the grant money, and which teacher he was giving it to-math, of course- which was the first I'd heard of it. I said "You get to do what?" How rich are these people?
    Answer: So Freaking Rich.
   
     In 1984 when I graduated, we had some freaking stellar teachers at GMHS. It was the perfect storm. The Starkeys ruled Lang Arts, Bud ran the theatre like a mini-conservatory, Steve Meinenger was Da Bomb in music, and I heard Shibley (what was his first name?) the band teacher was a real jazz musician, which was to either explain or excuse his apparent daily hangovers.
     And there was Peter Melbach: History.
     Sometimes called "Peter Von Melbach" or "Fucking Melbach" or just "Melbach".
     My freshman year I got a "C" in his class. I learned more from him than any other history teacher, ever, and regardless of the grade I signed up for his class again sophomore year. Fall semester I got an "F". I left my WWI map at a school in Salida while on tour with concert choir. When I returned, crying, beggging for just ONE extra day to redo the map, I was coldly told "No. It was due today" by Melbach.
     Later, after having class with him as much as I could, I came into his classroom with Shadows to sing to some kid in his class. He grabbed me by the door and said "You have more talent in your little finger than most of this school. Don't waste it."
     I was terrified and kept thinking it was an insult.

     Forward twenty years. I was a waitress at My Brothers Bar in Denver, which turns out to be Peter Melbach's favorite watering hole. Every time I would see him, he would ask about what I was doing ("Some show here, film over there, shot a commercial, blah blah blah") and he would say "Why aren't you teaching?" and I would say "Because you are. I'm not needed."
     Then one night I said "I am thinking about it. Maybe subbing first?" and he lit up like I'd never seen and just said "Yes."
     
    And the rest, as they say, is history...
    But then...
    The LHS Boettcher scholar this year was a theatre kid. And he chose me to receive the grant money.
     So I got to go to the fancy shmancy Boettcher ceremony at the Botanic Gardens.
     It rained, there was an accident and we were late, but we made it. "We" meaning Jim and I because I Got To Bring A Date!
      As I sat next to Ryan (the Boettcher Scholar, the kid who did all the work and who should get all the credit) watching the teacher/student parade and awaiting our moment, I saw Peter Melbach, heard his name announced and watched him accept a plaque.
      I gasped and looked at Jim "No way!"
      This is where I tell you my loving and supportive husband said "It's like if Spicoli was at the same awards as Mr. Hand." Yes, yes it is, and enjoy the couch tonight, dear.
      Funny, but wrong.
      I looked at the program and Peter Melbach has a denotation by his name indicating he is a "multiple recipient" of the Boettcher money.
       Of course he is.
       So when Ryan and I lined up to await our turn, I saw Peter in the front row and I started waving at him like a three year old at her dad on the merry go round.
         Seriously, you cannot take me anywhere. I have no doubt Ryan was humiliated and was wishing he'd chosen a grown up for the award money.
         Also, I cannot be around my high school teachers. When Bud comes to shows I am inconsolable. I still want nothing more than for Kathy Starkey to think I'm smart. Steve Meinenger got flipped off when he asked if I was supposed to be using the printer in the band office---this was three years ago. I was 44 years old.
         Poor Melbach must have thought I was "special"or had suffered a brain injury.
    
         Once we were released to the alcohol and food tables---wait, a moment should be taken to compliment the Boettcher's ability to know how to make high school teachers happy: free booze, free food and an invitation to wander around Denver Botanic Gardens for free. These guys get it.
         I got my red wine and made a beeline for Peter. I have no doubt anybody watching saw a crazy stalker.
         Once in front of him, I realized I had nothing to say. I mean...he's Peter Fucking Melbach, Five Time Boettcher recipient and Rock Star IB History Teacher. I'm Schleppy The Clown. The last time we spoke I asked him if he wanted another beer.
         So I said "Can we get a photo to prove you and I are at the same awards?" He was gracious and kind and said of course.
         His prinicpal offered to take the photo and I was out of conversation starters when Peter said "Congratulations."
          "Thanks. Wow. You too. How may is this?"
          He shrugged. "Five."
          I downed half my glass of wine.
          He indicated my glass "Where'd you get that?"
          AH! YES! Booze! A way in!
          "Over there, I'll walk with you."
          He stopped first and looked at me. The  man has the most intense, intelligent eyes. I thought how much they look like Kathy Starkey's eyes and how I hope he doesn't see nothing at all in mine.
           He said "You are a great teacher."
           I shook my head. "Dude, you have no idea."
           He stood firm. "Yes I do. I know. I knew it in high school.Congrats."

          Inside I was screaming and dancing and barfing and outside I held it together THANK YOU YEARS OF ACTING TEACHERS and said "Thanks. Seriously." And we walked together toward the booze and he called me kryssi and told me he was retiring and wants to write an historical fiction novel and see "what else is out there" after 38 years of teaching.
         Like we were colleagues or something. Not like we were Peter Fucking Melbach and Schleppy
 The Clown.