Gatos Diablos 18

    Well, friends, it's been many years now that this feline scourge has been terrorizing the bunnies of west Lakewood. Last night, the first victim of 2018 was encountered.
     I was at the show and received the following text from Jim "Your cat is attacking a baby bunny in the garage. I'm staying in the house."
     This was a group text, (side note, I've never been held hostage but I have been included in group chats) intended for Harper, who is said cats owner. Cats, plural, they are all hers. Harp tries to pawn Strumph off on me, but that cat and I never bonded. Jim calls her "Bitey", which remains as her gangsta moniker. As the black kitties have aged, Bitey has stepped in as the acting Godfather of the Cat Mafia. She takes orders from the olders, who sit fat around the house napping and eating like Marlon Brando. She is part of the younger generation, whose need to perform a kill for an audience is annoying to the elders, who roll their eyes, smooth their fur and return to dreamland, where they remember how much better things were back in the day; when the Gatos were subtle, quiet, stealthily leaving corpses in plain sight as they, the elders, sat quietly on a chair in the house and watched me turn on the hose.
     Gone are the days when decapitated bunnies were silently left on the back deck for me to discover every morning. I would hose down my back patio like a Jersey bodega owner. Ahh, the good old days. When bunnies were hunted at a second location, and quietly posed on my deck, headless and disemboweled, as a warning to anyone taking issue with The Diablos.
      This is the first year any of the mobsters have been seen doing the deed. Apparently, there was no attempt at hiding what she was doing. She deliberately performed her ritual in a well traveled location, which happens to be at the door between the house and garage.
       This blatant affront to the genteel manners of the previous generation is cause for concern. Is she more angry or less angry? When they would hunt at night and leave the mangled bodies for me to find in the morning, it made me wary when in their presence:what were they thinking? Their furry faces and milky eyes were inscrutable, and I gave them proper clearance when occupying the same room. But this? This is a challenge, the gauntlet is being thrown down publicly. The problem is that I have no idea what the gauntlet represents. I am unsure if this is over the gentle digestion cat food that the young Bitey finds to be insulting, or the lack of interference from humans when the dogs chase her down the hall.
       In the past, as I hosed the blood and guts off my deck, I would ruminate on the meaning of the display. I figured that the pattern was discernible from the the sky, and therefore it was actually a warning to both birds and bunnies alike: Stay Out. But to be caught in the act of attacking a  leporidae, the deed performed in front a my horrified husband, clutching his Keystone light and listening to SportsBallHockey, is a new tactic. Frozen with confusion, he did not know whether or not to intervene. Like any good bodega owner, Jim yelled at the cat, who froze with the bin in her mouth and looked up at him, long enough to release the unfortunate creature. "Hey, cut that out," is what my brave husband said to the offending gangster, who leveled him with a steely gaze as her prey scampered off.
       We tremble in fear awaiting the repercussions for our insolence. How dare any uppity human interfere with the work of the mob.
       Bitey passed by me as I was writing this, slowly, calculating the exact moment she can cause the most bother, disturbing my one quiet afternoon by leaping onto my laptop.
       It's best if I go now.

How To Build A Theatre Teacher-Part Two:Subbing On Planet Houston

   Jan 2018
  In my fourteenth year of teaching, as I handed back tests to my LA 9 Honors, I heard a couple of kids talking about the winter Olympic trials and a skier they liked. I looked at another kid and said "Did you see Shaun White's qualifying run? Perfect score after a broken face. You know how there's Fantasy Football? I have Fantasy Parenting. Shaun White is on my team."
   This is an essay exploring the very real possibility that what I had was, in reality, a fantasy career.
    These posts are a path to a larger piece in the making. Enjoy.

UH and Substitute Teaching
High School Language Arts
         In the early 90's, so early it was almost the late 80's, because it actually was the late 80's, I decided to substitute teach while going to school on Planet Houston. I was hired in "L.P." a city south of Houston and known for being a bit "rough" at the time. The city was largely blue collar workers, etc. Those neighborhoods are always considered rough, but let me tell you, that after 14 years of teaching in a suburban high school, blue collar kids are not "rough". They're just big, and sometimes multi colored and not always what others perceive as "scholarly",but they don't shoot each other. Just saying.
       My school schedule left me two days a week without classes, and I had tech class in the afternoons. Why not? What could go wrong?
       I was 23 years old. I  was 5'7" and weighed 120 pounds (the trend of citing my weight is a nasty habit I picked up in the Anorexic 80's and have shamefully not yet shed) and owned a single suit, purchased when I needed to start applying for jobs after we moved from Denver. When we arrived in Houston, I had no clothes due to the Thieving Bastards of Arlington, Tx, but that's another post.
       We lived in Seabrook, but Seabrook didn't have a school district that I could sub in. Or maybe their standards were too high, who knows. I can't be expected to remember everything. I do remember that Houston Independent School District had requirements I did not meet. Also teachers were being stabbed and bullied in HISD at that time, so I got hired in L.P.,  down the road, a district willing to hire a young college student to substitute teach. I had zero classroom experience as a teacher, but of course I had fifteen  years of classroom experience as a student in addition to years of babysitting and I was willing to do it for sixty bucks a day. How hard could this be?
      My very first day subbing at the high school, I was befriended by an imposing woman named Letisha Jones*. Even in my stupid suit I was under dressed next to Letisha. She was awesome, her hair was a magnificent black shiny mountain, her jewelry was all gold but tasteful and glorious against her dark skin, her suit was a real tailored suit, not off the rack. Her nails! Her fingernails were impeccable and she was already an imposing woman before she slipped on her name brand heels. I was Schleppy the Clown in my old character shoes, the only 'heels' I owned. She showed me my classroom, introduced me to admin as I walked through the halls looking up at the students. These kids were mostly giants and Letisha was at least six feet tall in her heels. They must put something in the water in L.P. She shepherded me to my room, where the large blonde wood desk sat with the blackboard right behind it. I flashed to the movie Teachers and imagined I would be as cool as Nick Nolte. Letisha told me I would enjoy my day, they were mostly upper level Language Arts kids, and her room was right next door. She also indicated the phone on the wall, and told me to pick it up in an emergency and an administrator  would be right down. I would need to know about this phone later at the junior high, but that's another post.
        The day went smoothly through lunch. I was surprised at how nice all these kids were to a sub. I remembered giving the subs in high school a hard time: switching seats, pretending to be someone else, talking incessantly. My band friends would switch instruments on sub days. Choir kids tried sitting in the wrong sections, but that wasn't nearly as funny as the band kids. They always were more clever.
        I walked into the hall during lunch, searching for the teachers' lounge. Somehow the giants seemed less threatening when they were seated in the classroom, out here in the hall I felt exposed without Letisha's arm around my shoulder. I started having a panic attack. I darted through the holes in the human sea and ran into the teachers' lounge, unwittingly slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it and looked up to find everyone staring at me. There was a clump of teachers in tableau, some seated, some standing, and a thin veil of smoke. A Voice from the Teacher Clump said "Dear, this is the teachers' lounge. Are you lost?"
        Confused, I squinted through the smoke at the Coke machine and took a few steps toward it. As I did, an imposing arm placed itself around my shoulders. Letisha's booming voice emerged "This is Ms. Martin, she's our new Lang Arts sub. Also theatre, right Ms. Martin?" The clump of teachers' expressions changed and a few "Hi's" and "Welcome's" were mumbled as they returned to crying and smoking, which everyone knows is what you do in the teachers' lounge. Letisha bought me a Diet Dr. Pepper (I weighed 120 pounds for a reason)and despite her friendly smile, I bolted as fast as I could back to my classroom. The teachers' lounge was dark and smokey and...they thought I was a student! That's what happened! How funny! I don't even look like an adult. This is a reality that plagued me throughout teaching, even as I aged, I never felt like an adult. At 52, as a high school teacher I still feel like I'm just a kid.
         The class after lunch was going along, and I gave them their writing assignments. A young man in the up stage right corner of the room, dressed in a long black duster, black Christian Slater hair falling in his face, lankily wore his desk as a costume piece and just stared at me. I asked if he needed anything, and he whispered. I didn't catch the word, and I noted the rest of the class silently watched the show. I asked him to repeat himself, and he said, loud and clear "Sex".
           I didn't miss a beat. "I can't help you with that, sorry."
           The class burst into laughter.
           Christian Slater Wannabe did not. He upped the ante by glaring right through me. I met his gaze--you can't scare me, I'm in theatre---and held it until he dropped his eyes.
           The rest of the period, he lounged in his up right spot and whispered "sex" under his breath. By about ten minutes into class, we all  became bored and ignored him. This did not effect his determination, he continued to whisper "sex" at specifically timed intervals until the bell rang. I admired his commitment to the script as well as the timing. Nice job, kid, but I'm still ignoring you.
            At the end of the day, Letisha came by to ask me how it went. I told her about Christian Slater and she shook her head. "Oh, Jake," she said and chuckled as she whispered "sex".
            "I didn't know what I was supposed to do."
            "Well, other subs--when he bothers to show up---have picked up that phone and had him taken to the office. You may be the only one to just ignore him."
             "Is he in one of your classes?"
            "Not this year, I had him last year. I ignored him. All admin does is make him sit in the office, he isn't going to learn anything there except to hate school.  At least if he's in class he may accidentally learn something."

            After I subbed in L.P. , finished college, had children, started a theatre company, closed a theatre company,and became a teacher--approximately 100 years later--I found myself adhering to Letisha's advice when it came to these types of kids. To this day, unless they are somehow dangerous or truly unruly, I just ignore it and keep going.
            Maybe they'll learn something by accident.
                                                                                                                                    *Letisha Jones was not her name, but that is close.
Junior High
        The one and ONLY time I ever subbed at the junior high school, this is what happened: I put on my one suit, a lovely navy blue pencil skirt/fitted jacket combo from Dillards. I drove to the school. I checked into the office. The friendly secretary welcomed me warmly, I received a campus map, a schedule, a room number and lesson plans. I walked to the classroom, settled in behind the desk and waited for the kids.
         The student desks were neatly lined up, five rows across and six deep. Every desk was taken, the kids sat in their assigned seats, answered "here" when called upon and in general were just fine.
         It's fine, they're fine, stop looking at me.
         I was learning quickly that the teachers during this time left me a lot of in class reading and writing. Which likely had more to do with the fact that I was subbing language arts than anything else. So the kids had their heads down, working on their assignments.
          During third period , a fairy portly young man in the second from stage right row, second seat, seemed a bit fidgety to me. I didn't hear any voices, nobody was talking, but he kept looking over his left shoulder at a kid in the fourth row, fifth seat back. As if they were communicating telepathically. Or maybe he heard voices. As long as they were quiet, what did I care?
          I sat on the edge of the desk watching the class and memorizing a monologue for my own class, when the Portly Young Man launched  out of  his seat with a mighty cry. I thought maybe he had been stung by a bee, which is how much logic is applied in this situation. There was  no explanation otherwise.
          In addition to springing to his feet, he twisted his body around to the left and vaulted from his second row seat to the fourth row, fifth seat back, grabbing that kid by the throat.
          The entire class jumped to their feet and immediately took sides, splitting the room and shouting encouragement, depending on their allegiance. The portly boy seemed heavily favored.
          In the few seconds I had to piece together that he was not stung by a bee, I realized he was attacking his oppressor. This kid had been bullied for years,and had chosen today to fight back.
           It's fine, I'm fine.
           Knowing there was a helpful phone right behind me that I could pick up and raise an administrator, I instead made the decision to intervene.
           There had been very little "sub training" past filling out paperwork. The only thing they really said was "Do not touch the students." They had said that a lot when I was hired.
           Adhering tightly to this sage advice while deciding if I was going to let these kids pummel each other , I hopped into the fray. All 120 pounds of menacing theatre student/sub, pencil skirt and all.
           I did, after all, hold a green belt in Tae Kwon Do. I know, I know, no autographs please, I'm telling a story.
           I grabbed the larger kid first, getting him in a headlock. I was being  kind when I called him "portly", as he outweighed me by at least forty pounds, maybe fifty. The other kid was smaller, so I grabbed him by the ear. I'm not kidding. It was hilarious. Well, hilarity is relative to time. It's hilarious now.
           I pulled them over the desks to the front of the room. I looked back at the class who were all frozen with dumbfounded looks on their faces. I nodded my head at a girl and said "Please pick up that phone and tell them to get down here."
           As she called, the bullied was still trying to get to his bullier. I may have been little, but I was strong, and he couldn't get his head out of my lock.
           When the girl hung up the phone, she told me what I already knew. "He's been bullying Bobby* since kindergarten."
            Two male administrators in ties appeared at my door. Both stood frozen, much as the students had. I imagine it was quite a scene: tiny blonde in a pencil skirt and jacket with a disgruntled junior high boy under one arm and the other dangling at the end of my vice like ear cuff. I smiled, "These two have an issue," I rotated my shoulder so they could see Head Lock's face. "Would  you please deal with it?" They nodded silently and each man took a boy with him. Neither administrator touched either boy.
             I turned to my class and smiled. "It was nice to meet you. I'm fired."
             As one gush of breath and pent up emotion, they all laughed and  then told me stories of what they had witnessed over the years between these two boys. I listened, I let them decompress, and after about ten minutes they were ready to resume their classwork.
             I returned to my perch on the desk, wondering if they would send an administrator to escort me off the premises. I had, after all, broken the only rule I was given when I agreed to this job. Do Not Touch The Students.
            The two administrators never returned, but the boys did. The smaller one had an ice pack on his face---Bobby had gotten him good---but Bobby just looked tired. They both schlepped back to their desks, took out their work, and resumed.
            We held that tableau until the bell rang.
             The next class started, no administrators emerged.
             Probably there is nobody else to teach this class, I reasoned. They'll fire me at the end of the day.
            After my last class, I walked to the office to turn in my paperwork. The secretary smiled at me in the exact same way that she had in the morning. "How was your day?"
             "Ummmm....you didn't hear?"
             Her smile did not falter. "No....?
             "Today is the day Bobby decided he's not taking it any more. He attacked his bully. During my class."
              "Oh my goodness, that is terrible. Are you OK?"
              I couldn't help staring at her as if she had guacamole on her face. "Yes....I'm fine. I didn't even rip my skirt."
               "Well, I hope this isolated incident does not effect your impression of our school. We'd love to have you back."
               I looked over her shoulder at the administrative offices. All the doors were closed.
               Unsure if I was being stopped in the parking lot on the way to my car, I waved at her as I left as if I were in a fog. Surely someone was going to fire me. I'm not supposed to touch the kids.
               At my car, I actually paused and looked around for police officers, or a truck with nice young men in clean white coats.
               Instead I saw Bobby, head down, getting on his bus. And his bully getting into a car with his dad.
              When I got home, nobody was waiting for me. There were no messages on  my machine.
               I kept expecting a call from the district, telling me I was fired. When I did get a call, it was a week later, when the Junior High called to ask me to sub again. I declined.
               They called on a day I had school. I couldn't have done it.
               Even if I had wanted to.

                                                                   *Bobby is not his real name

Last year...

Kryssi Martin

January 4, 2017 at 10:44am ·

According to my Facebook Memory Nag, I was sick New Year's 2016 and 2017. I'm fine this year, maybe I'm waiting for school to start to get sick. Anyway, my post last year was funny: 

Five Days Down. I can't focus long enough to write anything, or plan for classes. I can barely stay conscious. However, I have:
--NOT welcomed the New Year with an alcoholic beverage.
--NOT yoga-d. Only a brief attempt that ended in a coughing fit and a need for new knickers.
---NO coffee. Caffeine aggravates my headache.
---One Constant Headache. Seriously? For five days.
---One Pug Thing snuggling with me constantly. He is going to be very upset when I'm well.
---One anxiety attack. Not sure what that was about, but I thought I'd mention it.
---Four loads of laundry. Sick or not, if you're this coughy/ sneezy, aged over 50 and had two children you need laundry. Moms get me.
---"It's fun being weird, it fun being weird, it's fun being weird you should try it some time." After 4 days I had to turn off TBS, but that damned song endures.
---Somehow I managed to see every episode of DETOUR, and PEOPLE OF EARTH more than once. I heard WRECKED, but I'm not sure I saw it, I was unconscious during that binge, however I think it's a show about some grown ass people that are behaving worse than the kids in "Lord of the Flies".
---ONE coughing fit that ripped me from my sleep. It may have been triggered by choking on the Ricola I was nursing to keep the cough from waking me up....aaaaaanddd....fresh knickers.
---ONE Fat, 13 year old cat who has decided she needs to purr on my face, shoving more cat fur up my nose, sending fur flying around the room and generally impeding my ability to breathe.
----Five Days to regret not wearing a full HAZMAT suit while purging the house last week, as I'm sure the two feet of animal fur on the ceiling fan had something to do with this.
---Five Days to shuffle through the house in a polluted haze, laboring under the delusion that I'll rearrange the furniture in the living room and that'll solve everything.
---Which leads to five days of hating the furniture, angry that I'm not well enough to start putting the floor in the spare room, rich enough to just hire some one to blow up the spare room and start over again or for that matter, blow up all the furniture in the living room ...AHHH BUT I did make ONE trip to IKEA to look at beds!

I just realized I've been up since 8. It's 10. Go Me.Must be time to go back to bed

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