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

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

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

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

 

     

    


 

The Main Stage

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

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

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

               ...



              
      
       

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

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


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

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

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

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

     Did I mention they are all hand picked?

     I was ready to write a check right there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      So.

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

  

                                               And this is one part of their shop.

                                                         And this is Genoa, ready for college.

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

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?