The Carnage of Gatos Diablo '15

29 June 2015

   In past summers I have enjoyed sitting on my back deck with my morning coffee. Smelling the Colorado air, listening to the birds happily chirp away, wondering if the peach tree will come back this year. I  even put a hammock back there.

   Last summer, I scaled my backyard respites back because every morning when I awoke, I was greeted with beheaded bunnies strewn across the porch outside the sliding glass door. And rats, and mice and birds. All beheaded. All strewn on the concrete porch, next to the deck and in front of the sliding glass door. Placed precisely as if for display.
    I know my cats are killers.  We have tried the bell thing but they just take off the collars. But for years I never saw the carnage, because they had a pact with the foxes next door: "We'll kill it and leave it on our porch, you can eat it." It was a beautiful example of nature in balance. 
    But then last year, the fox den disappeared. There have been at least eight dens that I counted on our block alone. But last year, no pups. No adults. No dens. Gone. Vanished. I haven't seen a fox up here in two years.
     With nature out of balance, the cats began killing for, what I can only guess is, sport.
      I would pull out my garden hose every morning and wash off the patio like a Jersey Bodega owner. I stopped walking into the yard as I feared stepping on severed heads.
      This year I have only two words: The Hell?
       The escalation in violence is unsettling. Instead of ripping off the bunnies' heads, the cats have started bringing them, alive and chewed up, into the house.
          Last year I assumed they were leaving the heads around as either a warning to other cat gangs, or as an invitation for the fox to return. 
       Now I believe they are warning me. 
       In May I  found one terrified baby bunny downstairs in Jim's bathroom, cowering in the corner. He seemed unscathed and I set him free.
       A week later we found another one downstairs, again. This one was wonky on her feet (we don't actually know if they are male or female, we just decide based on personalities) so we kept her. Genoa insisted that she was too shaken up to return to the wild, and it had at that point been raining for weeks and we weren't sure it was best to set her free in the rain. Which is stupid, she's a bunny, they live outdoors.  We kept her over night and she died. No marks on her, we think the dog barked and scared her to death. Apparently baby bunnies have a self destruct mechanism that engages when they are too scared. It saves them the pain of being ripped apart.
       While we were in Florida, my sister found another bunny at the bottom of the stairs. This one was dazed  and also had no exterior wounds, and made friends with the lizard before being set free. I was not here, and therefore not available to make the official  determination of male or female.
        This morning I had to shoo Strumph away from a bunny she was chewing on in the rock garden. Strumph seemed to be playing, the bunny was not. The poor thing literally had its ass chewed, but was otherwise OK. I had to spray Strumph with the spray bottle  we use for the lizard and then forcibly grab her by the scruff and chuck her in the house, (while navigating around unidentifiable guts), where she immediately started a fight with the other cats. Maybe they have a steroid problem?
       Worse than the beheading has been the disemboweling. 
       Some mornings there may not even been a part of the animal, only its internal organs, which the flies are congregating on, plopped on the patio. Splat.
        One of the cats puked in the house  the other day, and when Harper cleaned it up she declared "there's part of a rat or something here."
        I am not sure if the gang of Gatos Diablo are now just gutting their prey for fun or if they are serial killers who are devolving. ( I watch a lot of Criminal Minds.)
        I like the name of the gang "Gatos Diablo" even though I'm pretty sure it's grammatically incorrect. If it's incorrect, they would tell me, Every morning when Jim gets up and the gang meows at him he says "You know I don't speak Spanish". 
        And because I don't speak Spanish, nor can I decipher the symbolism of disemboweling, I have no idea what the cats are warning me about. Are they dissatisfied with their brand of cat food? Am I to feed them fresh salmon? How can I fix it if I don't know what "it" is?
        For the most part they leave their catch on the patio by the sliding door, not the deck  itself. The deck, picnic table and grill seem to be off limits for some reason. I could, technically, have coffee on that side, but that's where the sun is strongest in the morning, it's more conducive to evening wine than morning coffee. 
        My own fears of catching the hantavirus ( HI KEN) or that other one you contract from being bitten by a flea from a dead animal, have been exacerbated. With the carnage mounting daily, I am hesitant to hose off the patio for fear I will disturb the fleas, and one will bite me, and I will die. My hammock was moved to the back of the yard for mowing, and I won't cross the yard to retrieve it, not even with shoes on. There are too many rotting corpses and internal organs out there that I know about, how many never made it to the patio to be hosed off? It's a Big Death Yard back there. I haven't enjoyed my morning coffee outside at home in two years. I'm cowering at the kitchen counter, looking longingly at the sunshine outside as I type this and drink my coffee.
       This morning as I rolled the lizard out to his sun spot, on the other side of the deck, the "safe" side by the grill, I was horrified to discover another pile of guts. In the Safe Zone! 
        What does it mean?
   
        Harper just handed me Strumph and said "explain to her she can't just beat  up the other cats."
        I held the tiny kitty and looked into her eyes. And I said "stop being a bully". But she just blinked at me. She does not understand Because I don't speak Spanish!
         I'm doomed.
        

     

             There are an abundance of viewpoints on the latest Education Debacle.
             I am of course referring to the current calamity that began last year in DougCo, and continues in Jeffco. Since I know teachers in both districts  and am myself a teacher, I feel I get to express my own viewpoint.

           Bull Shit.

          It is Bull Shit and it needs to stop.

          Ask DougCo teachers who have left DougCo why they left.

         Ask Jeffco teachers why they are frustrated and fear the future of their district.
Listen to them when they answer you.

           Do not think that, because you are a parent with a job that pays well, or you volunteered in the classroom that you know better than the educators. You  Do Not.

          Ask. Listen. And then step up and get involved. With a fully loaded, informed cannon aim it at the appropriate target and light the fuse.

Gary Wyckoff, Very Important Guy

     So I will depart from my education blatherings for a bit. 
     My dad.
     So we have my dad over for dinner once in a while, and occasionally make him meet us at our pub. He's 72...73? He has CPOD and refuses to go for walks or lose weight. Several years ago they thought he had congestive heart failure and he just shrugged. He's that guy. 
      Every time we meet  with him, I use my Google Machine until my phone battery is dead trying to piece together whatever movie or actor he's trying to remember. He gets the first name but not the last name, mixes up the movies--it's  actually a lot of fun. Once he kept insisting that Clint Eastwood  was in Wagon's Ho or  Wagon's West  and that Lee Marvin was in it with him and, embarrassingly, I didn't have to look that one up. I just said "Dad, that's Paint Your Wagon." Poor kryssi, sad sad sad.
       So last night at the pub was no different. But it's how we got there. We wound up talking about Hawaii, and the once in a lifetime trip we were able to take to Kauai in 2007, with my inheritance from grandma W. I was describing the water falls on  Waimea and the zip line, and dad perked up and said "That sounds like where they shot Donovan's Reef".
     "Dad, have you been to Kauai?"
      "No but that waterfall sounds like just like he one he carried the gal up...what was her name?" 
        So we had to split the conversation between me looking up Donovan's Reef on my Google Machine and Jim and I both asking dad about when he was stationed at Pearl Harbor, at first trying to determine if he had gone over to Kauai and forgotten.
         Turns out I'm not the only person my grandfather W neglected to tell that we had a relative on the Arizona. My dad, who was stationed there in 61/62, did not know, either.
          Because why would Grandpa talk about a cousin from Nebraska he rarely saw, even if he was on the Arizona when it was bombed? He had cows to milk, and one cow and one pig to slaughter a year, and he lived in what my dad calls "the basement".
           Basements have a structure above them. Grandma and Grandpa lived in a hole in the ground for years until they could save the money to buy a house that was then trucked over from Limon and set down. Literally, a hole. They had a piece of tarred wood they pulled over the opening.This was a step up from the sod house my grandma had been raised in, also on the property. And dad and Uncle Carlton used to strip the tar off of their "roof" and chew it. "It was like chewing gum" he says. (kryssi takes another long gulp of her amber.)
           So there wasn't a lot of quiet, by the fire, pipe smoking book reading family time for him to chat up his kids.
           Dad was at Pearl Harbor in 1961/62  before the memorial was done being built, so he did not see the name "R.L. Wyckoff" on the wall like I did in '83 and '07. He said they polished the brass and the dock walkway out to the ship. He said there were a few markers, but not the memorial I have stood on, twice. 
           I pulled up Donovan's Reef and exclaimed---as I was truly surprised---that it was shot on Kauai and in Waimea!
           The man knew the waterfall without having seen it?
            Dad took the opportunity to also explain that the one cow they slaughtered a year was shot in the head by Uncle Howard, who kept the head to make head cheese, which dad tried once but didn't like. (The head cheese he tried and did not like, not shooting the cow.)
           If dad had remained in the service he would have been around when they finished the memorial, and also likely sent to Vietnam,  but he was given an honorable medical discharge when he was diagnosed with bone cancer. It was in his elbow, and in 1962 what they did for that was remove your elbow. You can't be in the Navy any more if you are missing a joint, apparently. So he became a Mail Carrier, which is a career in which you need an elbow,and did just fine.
          So now he's a retired Mail Carrier with two pensions--military and postal,  something I suspect that doesn't exist any more---living in a tiny trailer, refusing to get a dog or go for walks, driving around his 20 year old Town Car, having brunch with these guys, bowling with those guys, meeting the other guys at the VFW and firing a rifle at military funerals at Ft. Logan. Except this Monday, when  he's shooting at a memorial in Morrison, and occasionally  Fridays when he meets his daughter and son in law at the pub. And a few Saturdays when he drives to Fredrick with his bestie Uncle Bob (Uncle Bob of "c'mere, I'll cut off your ears and make tacos out of them") and they sit in his other son in laws Barber Shop and guffaw and chuck and get their hairs cut.
            And occasionally, while at the pub, he has to take a call. It takes him a few seconds to determine if his phone is ringing or if he's being texted. If it's a text, he takes thirty seconds to reply. He only replies "yes" or "no" to texts, so don't complicate your life by giving him too much to read. Sometimes it's a voicemail, and he has to remember how to retrieve that. He has a flip phone from 1990 and is just as delighted as a kid with a new flip phone in 1990 when he makes it work.
           His incoming call last night was from the woman who sets his Firing Schedule (I dunno what it's called, that's what I call it), and she was confirming that he was going to be in Morrison on Monday, and adding an additional funeral tomorrow (today, Saturday). Without a calendar in front of him, and likely no calendar on his flip phone, he said loudly "I'll be there. I'll put it on my calendar."
          Is that living the dream or what?
         

Ageism and bifocals

                So Madonna stated in some  music type article that ageism is wrong and she is a victim.
                As  much as I want to giggle at that, I read the article. She made exactly two statements about ageism, and the rest were about teaching her kids safe sex and her album. So clearly it's high on her priority list.
               My sister used to work for a Doc at Northwestern University  whose clients were older. She carried a bag that said: Age Is Not A Disease and because she worked in it, she had and still has many passionate opinions about ageism.
                My mom was pushed into early retirement due to her age,and the accompanying health issues she battled. She was very capable at her job---arguably one of the best--but her age and ability demanded she be paid more, and someone younger can move more quickly and do more jobs for less money.
                And here we are at my job, a teacher, where they do not openly say anything about your age, but it is  frequently suggested that after a certain age you should take early retirement, mostly so they can hire a younger teacher that they can pay less, who doesn't know any better, and on whom they can load more duties.
               Which is not ageism. But if you have a mind to do so, you can call the union and sue the district for ageism. You would probably win.
                I am not a feminist. I am not an anti Ageist Activist. I am simply 49 years old and I feel like I'm 69 and I'm tired of feeling that way.
               I am also, quite likely, menopausal.
               There went the two guys who read my blog.
               And I have, sadly, suggested that an elder teacher in our building retire becuase it's clear he's "done". But is that his age, or the mileage?
              I pretty much feel "done" every year after the musical.  I blame my age, but really it's the mileage.  I hate that feeling.
              The issue was severely exacerbated last fall when I went down with bronchitis for two weeks. It effected my vision, and it still is not ok. Ask anyone who has received a text from me how good my eyes are. At the moment I am writing this at the "LARGE" setting because I can't see.
               It is not the arthritis, I've had that for years. It's not the weight, I've got that under control. I also have  the weird allergies and asthma that attacked me in my late 30's under control.It isn't the lower back pain, the swollen joints, the knees that sound like they have ground glass in them: years. Wrinkles? Gimme a break, they prove I've lived: character lines.  Stretch marks? Battle scars.
               It is not being able to see well.
               It is the bifocals.
               That is what is making me feel old.
               I haven't read a book for leisure in a year. I love books, I Love Reading, but my bifocals make it impossible to find a comfortable position with the "sweet spot", so I have to read without any glasses, and I get a headache and that makes me angry...and then I'm grumpy all day. So I watch a lot of TV now.
               Wanna feel old? Sit in bed on your day off and watch reruns because you can't see well enough to read!! I'm not supposed to behave like this until I'm in assisted living! The Hell?
               A Couple of years ago Jim tried to hike Bierstedt. We are not those people, and the lightning started right at he reached the summit, so he turned around. I didn't  even make it that far, my arthritis won't make it past the boulder garden. I admire the hell out of him for that. He just suddenly started making statements about  a Bucket List at 50, like he was not going down that easily.
               I can barely drive unless I know the route, I can't see street signs. Forget about hiking, I can't see where I'm walking. I'm terrified daily that I'm going to misstep on the stairs.
               Jim and I have talked about how many years I actually have left teaching theatre. Soon after I started at LHS I developed acrophobia, I actually start to get dizzy on the ladder. I stopped hanging lights four years ago, I can't be in the grid.  It's only 12' from the ground and I'm swaying and graying out! OLD WOMAN.
               It will not be long before I have to stop teaching tap dancing to my intro kids. Every time I do I come home limping, swollen knees and feet, mumbling at myself. My days of psuedo choreography are over, I cannot move the way I used to.  And....our makeup is always a hot mess, because I cannot see from the center of the house to the stage well enough to determine how it looks.
              These are things. They are real. If I am replaced by a younger person, would I cry "ageism"? Because the facts are that, due to my age, there are things I cannot do any more. Whether that's fair or not, It Is.
              My friend Brian Freeland once told me that "Theatre is for the young". This was a direct comment regarding me not getting cast. I was too old, fifteen years ago. What does that make me now?
               The Crypt Keeper.
                Now, Madonna. She still moves well. She works out and can do her job as well as she could at 30. However, there is a phrase Stacy and Clinton used  called "Age Appropriate Dress". Regardless of how great you look---and she does, she looks better at 56 than I did at 20--Shouldn't you alter your costumes a bit to indicate your maturity? Maybe to demonstrate that you've learned something over the years? At what age can you say "I am done proving my point" and just accept that you've proven it? Unfortunately in entertainment, so many women feel pressure to stay young, to look younger, blah blah blah. But those who refuse to play the game and rise above are generally regarded as Goddesses: Meryl Streep. Helen Mirren. Susan Sarandon. Dame Judy Dench. Beautiful, talented and sexy women who are done proving anything to anyone. And not a one in a leopard spank.
               I am not sure "ageism" is what Madonna is up against. I think she's off the mark on that one.
               Ageism is what I am up against. However, I am doing it to myself. Aside from harassing me pretty regularly about texts and rehearsal notes, nobody has said "You are too old to do this" but me. I am ageisming myself. And I should probably stop. Frankly it's making me grumpy.
           We just pulled off the most beautiful musical LHS has seen to date, and it absolutely repelled negativity. So my grumpy was redirected to the classroom and my husband. Neither group is happy about that.  Also,  I sit instead of stand during class. I don't necessarily need to, I just do. When I sit I feel like my Nana, hands in my lap. I feel like my Nana.  My Nana lived for over 80 years, I should not feel like my Nana, I'm 49!
           In conclusion, all in all, in summation, overall, I think we do this to ourselves. For whatever reason, we either misname or misunderstand or give up.
           For a woman whose theatre batttle cry is "Never Give Up, Never Surrender", It appears that I have done both.
           Maybe I should knock it off.
           Maybe I should go purchase a pair of leopard spanx and a torpedo boustier.
       

Who Needs Friends?

       This holiday, like many, my brain downloads.  Between the fall show and the musical, two weeks off, no real planning, my choices are limited. I can replay the semester until  I’m certain everything is wrong and work myself up once again over the budget, I can let go and move forward, or I can just sit and stare at the TV for a few days and let the thoughts download.

      That’s what I did. And the topic of friendships kept cropping up.

      And here’s my story, told in delightful, unrelated chunks and chips with the occasional rant.

      Harper’s friend was here yesterday, and said “My mom wants to go to coffee with you. She feels bad that I spend so much time over here and she doesn’t know you.”

      I smiled politely and said “Tell her thank you.”

      She persisted , “My mom really wants to get to know you.”

     “She’ll be disappointed.”

      She sat there blinking, and I felt obligated to continue.

    “I don’t have friends. I have colleagues, I have acquaintances, I have a husband and children. No friends.  It’s ok, it’s by design. I suck at it. I don’t like people. If she wants to meet me for coffee I’ll be rude, or say something wrong. “ I smiled and sipped my coffee on my chair in my home. Where I like to be.

    This exchange coupled with Genoa being back from her first semester of college to encounter the same high school bullshit she left  started a download.

    Not a sad one. I’m not sad. Occasionally Jim and I wish we had friends so we could have people over for dinner, and we’ve made conscious strides in that direction! I think we may have a couple of “couple” friendships. But like all friendships, they take maintenance and time and people have lives and it’s hard.

    You know that Meme: A good friend will bail you out of a jail, a best friend is in jail beside you?

Only once in my life have I been threatened with jail. In college, I was pulled over and received two tickets—one for not having insurance (which I did, it was just in Colorado and I was in Tx and that upset them) and  an expired inspection sticker. No biggie. I took the two papers the officer handed me and plopped them on my bulletin board. I then forgot there were two, and only attended one of the court dates. The second court date was when I went to South Padre for Spring Break. As much as I like to say “I went to South Padre instead of court” it was just a mistake. A warrant was issued for my arrest! I panicked, and immediately went to the Wortham Theatre Lobby to seek advice.  Because that made sense to me at the time. Curtis said “Run”. I called my friend Paul, who said “I’ll loan you the money” without hesitation. When I paid him back after the second court date, he looked completely shocked and said “I never expected to get it back.”

     THAT is a friend. 

     Friends feed you. Again, in college, I shared a house with two-and later three-other theatre kids. For my birthday they bought me groceries. Seriously.

I have no recollection of being anything other than a dick to any of these people, but they took care of me.

     I know what it’s like to not be invited. To have people stop talking or change the subject when you join. To know there is a party you, specifically, were not invited to.

    Or a wedding.

    Three of them, to be exact.

    The first two I kinda got, I am a jerk who cannot shut her mouth, and I had been mouthing off about the groom (#1) or the bride (#2) for quite some time. I did not like them, they were not good enough for my friends to marry.

    So they didn’t invite me.

    The third one hurt, however, as I have no recollection of deserving that snub.

    I have a Magic Santa’s Bag of high school snubbing memories, but who cares? We all do.

    The point is that I just accepted it and I’ve created a life without friends. I know for a fact (Jenny) will be offended, because we are  friends, yes, but she’s busy and I’m busy and she knows I love her and I’m not talking about her. I guess I have one friend.

     Both of my kids have my affliction. Neither makes friends easily. Harp has really made strides toward seeking out friendships, I admire that in her. G is like me in that she latches on to the two or three she has. She doesn’t function well in groups, and that’s genetic.  I go two ways at parties: I am the loudest entertainer there or I slump in a corner with a glass of wine with the ONE other person who feels the same way I do. CASE AND POINT: THE COOKIE EXCHANGE.

      My across the street neighbor  is relentlessly friendly. She knows everyone on the block, has thrown block parties in her backyard, and has a cookie exchange every Christmas. Several years ago my husband forced me to attend the cookie exchange, declaring that I needed friends. And bullying me into a holiday cookie exchange was his way of helping. So I reluctantly attended, and slumped at the counter with a glass of wine with the One Other Teacher at the party, and bitched about our administrators. So…I made one new “friend”, but not really as I only see her once a year.

     Except this year, when I went to Lannie’s Clocktower to watch  Indy Fire’s Burlesque debut instead of attend the cookie exchange. I took my children. Because I don’t have friends.  The dates happened to crash, and I’m so socially retarded I’m unsure if I should apologize for missing the cookie exchange. I doubt anybody noticed.

Merry Christmas. Who Needs Friends?

Harvey and South Pacific

It's pretty typical for me to question everything, including my career choice and sanity during Hell Week. It was exacerbated this week since the lights have been out in the theatre for six months.
    I've been teaching theatre classes on a stage lit by Edison work lights all year.
    We've been rehearsing on the same dark stage.
    They have been teching on a dark stage.
     The kids painted the floor by worklight, flashlight and cell phone light.

   This floor. And the pit the boys are on is a beautiful wood grain. Also painted in the dark.

Also built this door frame and door in the dark.

And I was grumpy.

    Then , on 24 October, the lights came on.
   And I was still angry.
   And depressed.
   And annoyed.
   Nothing was fixed when the lights came up but the lights.
                 The Hell?

   Last weekend a former student of mine gave me a comp to come see him in South Pacific. I hate South Pacific. The music is pretty and all, but The Hell with the story?
    I love Jared more than I hate South Pacific.
     I was running late, the parking lot was full. I had to park on the top level at DU. The Newman Center. I've never met the Newmans, but they sure build a lot of theatre stuff at DCPA and DU. MAybe they'd build me something?
     A lovely older couple held the elevator for me. They were maybe in their late sixties, early seventies. She was very fashionable with her short blonde hair.
    It turned out we were seat mates, she and her husband had the tickets next to me. Really good, close seats, not the usual crappy comps (Thank you, Jared). She was very friendly and asked me if I knew anyone in the show. "Yes, a former student". She pulled out her program "Which one is he?" "Luther Bills". "OH how nice." I did not ask her if she knew anyone.
     The show began. The kid singing Emile was stunning, one of those "Why The Hell Are You Not Already on Broadway" voices. He made me like the music. As he sang "Some Enchanted Evening", my seatmate reached for her husband's hand. Then she wiped her eyes. Then he wiped his. Maybe it was their first dance song? They aren't quite old enough to remember  WWII (those in the seats behind me with walkers and oxygen, however, were but clearly this show meant something to my seatmate couple.)They were not critiquing the disconnected female lead, or the less than stellar chorus voices. They just loved the show.
     When Jared sang "Nothing like a Dame" my seatmate leaned over and asked "Is that your student?"  I nodded. She gushed "he is really good." I smiled. Yes, yes he is.
      When Jared donned coconut boobs and a grass skirt, she laughed her head off. She was the loudest laugher in the theatre! Such joy! The Funniest Thing She'd Ever Seen! She's never seen a boy in stretch socks and boxers and coconut bra! "You must be so proud!" she gushed at me again. She started repeating his catch phrase "get the picture". At one point I began to become concerned that she did not realize other people were in the audience.
      She said loudly "He is so funny! You had something to do with that!  Get the picture?"
      It took 20 minutes to get out of the theatre as I waited for every senior in their walker to go first. I smiled at them and admired their children as they escorted their elderly parent and their various walkers, oxygen tanks, etc. from the theatre. There were two young girls in attendance, also waiting for the slower crowd. They could barely contain their excitement. Their mom said "Do you want to go meet them in their costumes?" And the girls practically exploded with anticipation. As I silently snarked "Seriously? They come out in costume? How unprofessional."
      As a side note on this topic, on  Genoa's fifth birthday  I took her to see The Dinosaur Play at the Arvada Center featuring my friend, Brian, as the triceratops. The cast waited in costume outside the theatre (children's theatre, that's acceptable) and as Genoa passed Brian, he said "Happy Birthday ,Genoa!" It changed her life.
      I toddled into the lobby to look for Jared, hoping to God he was not in costume. He was. A few audience members approached him, bellowing "Get the picture?" I told him my seatmate story, hugged him a lot, made his dad take a photo.

He laughed his big Jared laugh and said she had come and talked to him--although I am unconvinced it was my seatmate, there were many who found him delightful. I mean, look at him! You know he killed in that cocounut bra.


      Back at LHS, we had scheduled HARVEY for only two nights WEDS and THURS before Thanksgiving break. Because the lights wouldn't be on in time for us to do it sooner, and no admin wanted to be there on Friday night before  the break. About three weeks into rehearsal, I leaned that I had no money. None. Someone higher than me had muffed up and not done their job. HARVEY was happening on borrowed money. So I decided to go for a Friday performance to at least make some money. Selling weeknights is rough. A Friday before Thanskgiving break, HARVEY, we'd do great! But admin was unmoved. They were willing to allow a show if I did it at 5pm
     Are you kidding me? Parents can't make a 5pm curtain. I will make no money, this is pointless, WHY DO I BOTHER?
     Then it hit me.
      Old people can do five pm. See the show, have dinner.
      People who actually SAW the movie with Jimmy Stewart when it came out.
      Old People.
       Like the ones at South Pacific .
       Who were there because they liked the show, the story, and it was a matinee!
        After South Pacific I realized I have to let go of making any money. But I'm keeping the 5pm show Friday so people who actually want to come and know the story can attend!
        Because theatre is for those who attend. It's for my seatmate who had a personal connection to Some Enchanted Evening. They do not critique. They do not snark, they just want to enjoy a familiar story. A Delightful, funny, charming story of a grown man whose best friend is an invisible rabbit.
         I do not mean "old" in any snarky capacity. I will be old, I am old. It means I know more. I have more heart, more experience.


      And so.
     TELL THE WORLD. HARVEY is being done just for this audience. People who wish to Enjoy A Show.  For these people who regularly come to my shows and enjoy themselves.  Friday 21 November 2014. Littleton HIgh School.
      5 pm
      Senior Citizens are ALWAYS free of charge at Littleton. And I love them.

All The Feels Part 1

   It isn't enough that I am in Durango, dropping off my oldest at college.

   My youngest did not come with us.
   She has a new job, needed to work and,  ultimately, needed time "away" from us, I guess, which is funny 'cause she's never home, but whatever.
  
    We got up at 9 to have breakfast before the 10 a.m. check in time. Genoa is allergic to calendars or any distribution of information, so we were not sure if that was real. It was. We arrived and she checked herself in, which is when we discovered she didn't have a roommate. They put the kids' names on the dorm doors, and G's was the only name. After some debate she chose the bed with the tree blocking her view of the quad because it is next to the heat register. Since no roommate was imminent, we decided to spring for a fridge and a microwave.
  
    The Durango Walmart Has It Goin' On.
    We walked four steps and were faced with three different sizes of fridge choices. Three more steps and the microwaves appeared! $300.00 later we returned to Fort Lewis and schlepped the electronics up to Genoa's room. Which, by the way did I mention, is on the 2nd floor. I couldn't get a grip on the fridge box, so I put it down for a moment. Another passing parent asked if she could help. I answered "I don't think well, it's just, yes can you just load it on my arms?" That was the second time I realized I had lost my capacity for speech. It happened earlier in the dorm room, when G was unpacking and asked a question and I said "I um shma pants...uh.."  I saw that same parent later at orientation, and she said "I know you, you were almost strangled by a tree." I realized that from her perspective, my scarf had wound around my neck and arms and the box and it looked deadly. I was not, however, anywhere near the tree, I'm not sure where she got that.

    As we were leaving the parking lot for Walmart I noted a family saying good bye to their son. We hadn't even finished moving G in yet, and these people had already shown up, moved him in and moved on. Maybe he was a sophomore, but I doubted it based on the extended hug he was receiving. It never occurred to me to just drop G off. To slow down to 30 and push her out of the car.

   At the bookstore, Jim and I were purchasing the obligatory mugs and shirts, and Genoa and Rachel (her new friend) were walking toward us. I smiled, and Genoa waved books encased in plastic at me and proclaimed "Look what I did! I'm an adult! I bought my books!"

  When we crossed their path a few minutes later, she barely registered our presence. When we said "bye", she did not even notice we had left.
  
   Clearly, she's fine.


    I got a text from her about7 p m, she now has a roommate. She is native American from a res in Arizona, very shy and very sweet, and very unnerved that their suite mates already have boys over.


          She also texted me that she was at a party. Who tells their mom they are at a party? Genoa. Who else? All the feels.

       Clearly, she is going to be fine.