I just spent the weekend stalking wildlife in its native habitat.
And by wildlife, I mean a really skinny, gorgeous friend of mine. And by habitat, I mean a sophisticated, cosmopolitan city--in this case, San Francisco.
What did I learn? Lots, Dear Readers. I had quite the education. Tip-toeing after her in my pith helmet, I discovered:
1. Exercise. I'm talkin' the real stuff, with the hotel gym, and the running shoes. Not just strolling around with a gelato in your hand. And did she slack off because she was on vacation? Not a chance. She was up at dawn, gettin' it done. I, on the other hand, was blissfully snoozing.
2. No snacking between meals. The key to this is having a large cup in your hand at all times, filled either with coffee or tea. Both of them are satisfying and suppress the appetite. As I discovered.
3. Gluten is verboten. Why? Because all the really fattening stuff is basically gluten with food coloring and decorations. When you avoid bread and pasta, you have calories left over for lots of other stuff.
4. No meat. Meat often comes in the form of fried things, and fat-covered things. Fish, however, is fine. As is cheese, but not in gooey piles. More like arranged in delicate morsels between some fruit and nuts, or shaved gorgeously over salads. (Note: I don't like fish. So I had chicken.)
5. Life is only worth living with chocolate, so eat chocolate. But make sure it's quality high-cacao dark. Then go for it.
6. Same with wine. A glass or two on vacation enhances that vacation-y feeling. No mixed drinks, though, which are basically bread squeezed into a glass full of high-fructose corn syrup.
7. Enjoy fancy restaurants, but avoid those wallet-busting, waist-boosting entrees like steak and pork belly. You can have THREE beautiful veggie or fruit-based appetizers for fewer calories AND less money.
8. When in doubt, on the side.
Because it was Passover (which is basically the Jewish version of gluten-free) I followed a lot of these tenets on my trip. And the most shocking things happened.
1. I didn't feel hungry.
2. I didn't feel sleepy.
3. I didn't crave stuff.
Since these three states are basically the triad of my existence, this was surprising indeed.
Now, I like to think that when I'm at my best, I know something about nutrition. But maybe I have some pondering to do.
Hmmm.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Hippety Hoppety
Good lord, this silence has got to be some sort of record. Maybe I was just so relieved to be speaking again that I had to use up all my words orally. Something sounds wrong about that.
Yeah, my voice is mostly back. After three weeks--sheesh. I still sound a tiny bit froggy on those high notes. But I will return to my voice lesson this week, oh yes. I will.
Just returned from a Passover/Easter weekend in the OC. It's fast becoming a tradition to stay in the Residence Inn near my parents' house, which has room for us to spread out, and a kitchen for making snacks. Jarrah is bonkers for the pool, and David can loll on a shaded lounge chair with his Xoom while I sweat it out to my iPhone tunes in the tiny but sufficient gym. That way all three of us are happy.
Lots of niceness this weekend. Baby Lilah is now about 13 months, the age Jarrah was when I met her (though about half the size) and hilarious, outgoing and easy. I got to see my family for the first time in like three months. Breakfast with my dear old pal, Bryan, from high school. A stunning walk around Balboa Island, a breezy ferry trip, and some Skeeball (in place of the Area 51 which turned out to be broken--drat, I was really in the mood to blow the heads off some aliens.) It was all niceness except for the part where I had a great big ol' baby tantrum, as I often do when I'm around my family. I just stew and simmer about things until I blow over one seemingly tiny and inconsequential thing. And everyone just goes about their business or talks about me like I'm not even there. It's like I'm in one of those time-space continuum bubbles that you see in movies, or I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past or something, totally invisible to the naked eye. It's disconcerting, so I just keep yelling and feeling like a crazy person, trying to get noticed. Yep, good times. You'd think I'd grow out of it, but no, because it's in no way fun, and then I feel super-ashamed on top of being mad. Luckily, it had blown over by dinnertime. Everyone just pretends like it never happened. Family tradition, I guess.
Today we had Easter lunch with Mary and Paul and Joy, complete with yummy treats (so yummy it was less hard to turn down the rolls and the cornbread--we've just completed Day 2 of eight days of carb-free living) and an egg hunt. We also had several sequels of an original play, "The Easter Bunny's Mistake," written and performed by J and J with impressive amounts of hopping.
Next week I'm off on a girls' weekend to San Francisco to see Spamalot and indulge in some gluten-free frolicking with two friends from my University of London days. Really pretty stoked about that prospect (though not about the gluten-free part.)
Oh, and are you on Instagram? That's my new slightly obsessive hobby, taking pictures of random stuff, bathing it in filters and posting it to Instagram. Come join me, won't you?
Yeah, my voice is mostly back. After three weeks--sheesh. I still sound a tiny bit froggy on those high notes. But I will return to my voice lesson this week, oh yes. I will.
Just returned from a Passover/Easter weekend in the OC. It's fast becoming a tradition to stay in the Residence Inn near my parents' house, which has room for us to spread out, and a kitchen for making snacks. Jarrah is bonkers for the pool, and David can loll on a shaded lounge chair with his Xoom while I sweat it out to my iPhone tunes in the tiny but sufficient gym. That way all three of us are happy.
Lots of niceness this weekend. Baby Lilah is now about 13 months, the age Jarrah was when I met her (though about half the size) and hilarious, outgoing and easy. I got to see my family for the first time in like three months. Breakfast with my dear old pal, Bryan, from high school. A stunning walk around Balboa Island, a breezy ferry trip, and some Skeeball (in place of the Area 51 which turned out to be broken--drat, I was really in the mood to blow the heads off some aliens.) It was all niceness except for the part where I had a great big ol' baby tantrum, as I often do when I'm around my family. I just stew and simmer about things until I blow over one seemingly tiny and inconsequential thing. And everyone just goes about their business or talks about me like I'm not even there. It's like I'm in one of those time-space continuum bubbles that you see in movies, or I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past or something, totally invisible to the naked eye. It's disconcerting, so I just keep yelling and feeling like a crazy person, trying to get noticed. Yep, good times. You'd think I'd grow out of it, but no, because it's in no way fun, and then I feel super-ashamed on top of being mad. Luckily, it had blown over by dinnertime. Everyone just pretends like it never happened. Family tradition, I guess.
Today we had Easter lunch with Mary and Paul and Joy, complete with yummy treats (so yummy it was less hard to turn down the rolls and the cornbread--we've just completed Day 2 of eight days of carb-free living) and an egg hunt. We also had several sequels of an original play, "The Easter Bunny's Mistake," written and performed by J and J with impressive amounts of hopping.
Next week I'm off on a girls' weekend to San Francisco to see Spamalot and indulge in some gluten-free frolicking with two friends from my University of London days. Really pretty stoked about that prospect (though not about the gluten-free part.)
Oh, and are you on Instagram? That's my new slightly obsessive hobby, taking pictures of random stuff, bathing it in filters and posting it to Instagram. Come join me, won't you?
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Still Not Talking, So I Must Write
I have a two-inch burn scar along my left jaw line. It's kind of rakish and pirate-like, not that I was going for that look. No, I was just trying to curl my hair in time for the Saturday matinee, and miscalculated for the first time since I started using that genius but lethal appliance.
At first I hoped I had "caught it in time." I rushed for a big wad of ice, and later slathered it with cocoa butter. It's in a spot that's hard for me to see. But not for everyone else, apparently, judging from the number of comments I get. The first one was Charles, backstage at Birdie. "What did you do to your FACE?" he yelped, even interrupting his own dirty joke for this exclamation, which is saying something. I gasped and slapped my hand over the evidence. "I don't want to talk about it." Now everyone was looking. "Don't be ashamed, Sam," said Shani, "We've all done it." Really? Everyone has DESTROYED THEIR OWN FACE at that age when Coco Chanel famously said we have the one we DESERVE???
Ugh. Now I have to talk about it at least three times a day, because no one seems to remember what their mamas told them about keeping their shock and horror at other peoples' disfigurement to themselves. The latest was Bethsy, from Jarrah's class, on my way to the car yesterday: "Miss Sam, are you doing art with us Wednesday? WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR FACE???"
Ugh ugh. I've heard all kinds of suggestions. Red or green concealer, from the two cosmetology students doing our hair on Birdie. Lavender oil from the massage therapist in the cast. Seeing it as my own "inexpensive laser peel" from my oh-so-helpful husband. Suggestions, Readers? You might as well weigh in, if I'm going to be reminded of my own stupidity on a daily basis anyway.
A couple people have asked in wonderment, "Why did you do that?" Because I'm a moron, that's why. Now that that's settled, can we talk about something else?
Like the sad fact that my voice is not back. On the contrary, I've been pretty much mute for two days. I'm feeling weirdly alone because of it, isolated in my own little bubble, and I don't think it's my imagination that shopkeepers and random chatty strangers are speaking a little louder and slower with that crinkly, sympathetic smile to show compassion for my apparent developmental challenges. I had to cancel my voice lesson. I can't talk on the phone. It's making me realize just how much of the airspace I suck up in the average conversation because everyone seems awfully silent. I want to urge everyone to talk, talk, talk--just natter on pointlessly about your day, if that's all you've got--BECAUSE I AM LONELY. Hearing about your struggles to reschedule your daughter's piano lesson would be better by far than all this nothing.
It also makes me see that I married a very quiet man. Our dinners have been crypt-like. You can hear chewing and that's about it. And why must Jarrah, who normally makes it her life's mission to interrupt my every sentence, has suddenly gone all enigmatic, too? No stories about school, no endless questions about why people get married and the layout of the solar system.
I can't take much more of this, people. I'm going to have to take up the drums.
At first I hoped I had "caught it in time." I rushed for a big wad of ice, and later slathered it with cocoa butter. It's in a spot that's hard for me to see. But not for everyone else, apparently, judging from the number of comments I get. The first one was Charles, backstage at Birdie. "What did you do to your FACE?" he yelped, even interrupting his own dirty joke for this exclamation, which is saying something. I gasped and slapped my hand over the evidence. "I don't want to talk about it." Now everyone was looking. "Don't be ashamed, Sam," said Shani, "We've all done it." Really? Everyone has DESTROYED THEIR OWN FACE at that age when Coco Chanel famously said we have the one we DESERVE???
Ugh. Now I have to talk about it at least three times a day, because no one seems to remember what their mamas told them about keeping their shock and horror at other peoples' disfigurement to themselves. The latest was Bethsy, from Jarrah's class, on my way to the car yesterday: "Miss Sam, are you doing art with us Wednesday? WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR FACE???"
Ugh ugh. I've heard all kinds of suggestions. Red or green concealer, from the two cosmetology students doing our hair on Birdie. Lavender oil from the massage therapist in the cast. Seeing it as my own "inexpensive laser peel" from my oh-so-helpful husband. Suggestions, Readers? You might as well weigh in, if I'm going to be reminded of my own stupidity on a daily basis anyway.
A couple people have asked in wonderment, "Why did you do that?" Because I'm a moron, that's why. Now that that's settled, can we talk about something else?
Like the sad fact that my voice is not back. On the contrary, I've been pretty much mute for two days. I'm feeling weirdly alone because of it, isolated in my own little bubble, and I don't think it's my imagination that shopkeepers and random chatty strangers are speaking a little louder and slower with that crinkly, sympathetic smile to show compassion for my apparent developmental challenges. I had to cancel my voice lesson. I can't talk on the phone. It's making me realize just how much of the airspace I suck up in the average conversation because everyone seems awfully silent. I want to urge everyone to talk, talk, talk--just natter on pointlessly about your day, if that's all you've got--BECAUSE I AM LONELY. Hearing about your struggles to reschedule your daughter's piano lesson would be better by far than all this nothing.
It also makes me see that I married a very quiet man. Our dinners have been crypt-like. You can hear chewing and that's about it. And why must Jarrah, who normally makes it her life's mission to interrupt my every sentence, has suddenly gone all enigmatic, too? No stories about school, no endless questions about why people get married and the layout of the solar system.
I can't take much more of this, people. I'm going to have to take up the drums.
Monday, March 19, 2012
What's The Word, Hummingbird?
My voice is lost. Wherefore art thou, voice? Of course I've been all up in the internet trying to diagnose myself with vocal polyps or other horrors. Maybe it's because when I picked Jarrah up today (late!) I passed two of the preschool moms who tried to talk to me and when I gestured to my throat one of them shrieked "AGAIN?!?" I'm hoping she's just referring to the time over two years ago when I had to MC the preschool auction sounding like a naughty hotline operator. Because two years is not "AGAIN?!?"-worthy, is it?
You might think "Well, of course you lost your voice! You sang FOUR shows in under 48 hours!" But I'm not sure that's it. I think I might have a little something. Because I have a sore throat, too, and a slight cough. I could feel my voice getting scratchy during the two shows on Saturday, and by Sunday I woke up with nothin'. After being plied with Slippery Elm lozenges and Honey Ginger Singer Spray by my sweet cast mates, there was enough to power through one more show.
Then I was a new kind of freak at the cast party. Suddenly, I was the Sam No One Can Hear. There were a number of polite "What's thats?" and "Sorries?" and finally I just gave up and smiled and nodded a lot. Which is so not me. And everyone knows it. Still, it was a lovely, if melancholy, cast party, graciously hosted by the parents of Ursula Merkle at their home in Spring Valley, where we all snuggled up by a roaring fire and sipped the best Tortilla Soup I've ever had (two steaming bowls failed to cure what ails me, however.)
Today I slept most of the morning and had a massage plus half-hour in the redwood sauna with a cup of Wellness Tea (bless the heart of my adorable therapist) but still feel ready to keel over now. Plus, this lack of voice thing is a downright detraction from my sunny persona. For instance, I went to Von's for taco fixins and whenever I'd get a hearty hello from the Produce man or the kid bagging my groceries, I'd have to smile wanly back with nary a sound. I could tell this was a bit off-putting but I didn't know what else to do except carry little cards to hand out that say "HELLO! I AM FRIENDLY AND AM NOT IGNORING YOU! I HAVE LARYNGITIS! HAVE A GOOD DAY!" When the checker asked "Will you be needing help out to the car?," for the first time ever it sounded like someone thought I was far too impaired to make it on my own.
As I've mentioned before, my voice is my gift to the world. Without it, I'm nothing. I can't tell stories. I can't make jokes or wry, witty observations. I can't laugh at other people's jokes. I can't sing. In short, I can't be MYSELF. So I start to get depressed. And coming off the amazing high of this show, plunged into the brittle winter's morn of the soul that surely follows, is especially hard.
Think good thoughts for its speedy return, won't you? Thanks.
You might think "Well, of course you lost your voice! You sang FOUR shows in under 48 hours!" But I'm not sure that's it. I think I might have a little something. Because I have a sore throat, too, and a slight cough. I could feel my voice getting scratchy during the two shows on Saturday, and by Sunday I woke up with nothin'. After being plied with Slippery Elm lozenges and Honey Ginger Singer Spray by my sweet cast mates, there was enough to power through one more show.
Then I was a new kind of freak at the cast party. Suddenly, I was the Sam No One Can Hear. There were a number of polite "What's thats?" and "Sorries?" and finally I just gave up and smiled and nodded a lot. Which is so not me. And everyone knows it. Still, it was a lovely, if melancholy, cast party, graciously hosted by the parents of Ursula Merkle at their home in Spring Valley, where we all snuggled up by a roaring fire and sipped the best Tortilla Soup I've ever had (two steaming bowls failed to cure what ails me, however.)
Today I slept most of the morning and had a massage plus half-hour in the redwood sauna with a cup of Wellness Tea (bless the heart of my adorable therapist) but still feel ready to keel over now. Plus, this lack of voice thing is a downright detraction from my sunny persona. For instance, I went to Von's for taco fixins and whenever I'd get a hearty hello from the Produce man or the kid bagging my groceries, I'd have to smile wanly back with nary a sound. I could tell this was a bit off-putting but I didn't know what else to do except carry little cards to hand out that say "HELLO! I AM FRIENDLY AND AM NOT IGNORING YOU! I HAVE LARYNGITIS! HAVE A GOOD DAY!" When the checker asked "Will you be needing help out to the car?," for the first time ever it sounded like someone thought I was far too impaired to make it on my own.
As I've mentioned before, my voice is my gift to the world. Without it, I'm nothing. I can't tell stories. I can't make jokes or wry, witty observations. I can't laugh at other people's jokes. I can't sing. In short, I can't be MYSELF. So I start to get depressed. And coming off the amazing high of this show, plunged into the brittle winter's morn of the soul that surely follows, is especially hard.
Think good thoughts for its speedy return, won't you? Thanks.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
One-Hit Wonder
Jarrah has been doing a lot of writing these days. She opened a restaurant in our living room which necessitated a sign on our bedroom door: "Employees Only."
I am feeling a bit narcoleptic, as I am wont to do for a full week following the time change. Seriously, I feel like the alarm goes off in the middle of the night. I fall asleep spontaneously whenever I sit down somewhere. I had done exactly that on the couch the other afternoon and was blinking myself conscious again when Jarrah appeared in the doorway, brandishing a piece of yellow construction paper.
"I wrote you a song."
"That's nice," I croaked. "Can I hear it?"
I could. Here's an exact transcript:
I Love You
I love you
I love you
I love you every time
Your my best firend oo be my forever
I will never stop loveing you
you are always going to be mine
I love you mom!
Please don't be mad at me I love you!
I will even love you when I'm a grown-up!
I will stay with you!
Forever and ever
hug me and kiss me over and over agen
until I kiss you back!
oo baby your all mine!
"That..." I said with a weird smile, "is quite a song."
"You like it?"
"I love it."
"Okay, can you put some choreography to it?"
"Okay."
"Oh, and Mom? I actually took some of the ideas from Justin Bieber."
"That makes sense. All the great ones steal their stuff from the masters."
I am feeling a bit narcoleptic, as I am wont to do for a full week following the time change. Seriously, I feel like the alarm goes off in the middle of the night. I fall asleep spontaneously whenever I sit down somewhere. I had done exactly that on the couch the other afternoon and was blinking myself conscious again when Jarrah appeared in the doorway, brandishing a piece of yellow construction paper.
"I wrote you a song."
"That's nice," I croaked. "Can I hear it?"
I could. Here's an exact transcript:
I Love You
I love you
I love you
I love you every time
Your my best firend oo be my forever
I will never stop loveing you
you are always going to be mine
I love you mom!
Please don't be mad at me I love you!
I will even love you when I'm a grown-up!
I will stay with you!
Forever and ever
hug me and kiss me over and over agen
until I kiss you back!
oo baby your all mine!
"That..." I said with a weird smile, "is quite a song."
"You like it?"
"I love it."
"Okay, can you put some choreography to it?"
"Okay."
"Oh, and Mom? I actually took some of the ideas from Justin Bieber."
"That makes sense. All the great ones steal their stuff from the masters."
Monday, March 12, 2012
Showmance
One weekend down! Full houses all three shows!
Being in front of an audience is awesome. I am making the most of my "face in the crowd" status and amping up the crazy whenever I see a window. My stage "husband" actually told me I should tone it down because I'm pulling focus from the leads. Um, not likely.
I got a really nice compliment from a gal in the lobby the other night. She said she couldn't take her eyes off me. Yes, those were her words. And really, isn't that what every actor wants to hear? I'll take it!
Being backstage with 42 people has been challenging. While we're getting accustomed to our little inch of changing space and learning where to keep our stuff so it doesn't get trodden or moved, small skirmishes have broken out--mostly amongst the teens and children. Granted, the kids have it worse because they're actually in a circus tent behind the theater, where they swelter or freeze, depending. I'm grateful for my indoor inch.
There's been a lot of laughter and bawdy talk. I've learned some, ahem, terminology that I might have been better off not knowing, having avoided it until now. But the adults are getting along well enough that we've gone out together four times already. Friday night, when we filled five tables at The Red Fox Room, was especially fun.
By yesterday afternoon, I could see everyone was a little dead behind the eyes. Not onstage, mind you. During intermission, and after, when we were cleaning up. Last night, I felt like I was hallucinating a little bit while ready Jarrah a story. And I still didn't sleep well--curse you, time change! This first week makes me feel narcoleptic.
Now I have a few days off to recover. And while I know I could use the rest, there's a part of me that's already sad to realize we have only one more weekend before we scatter to the winds. It's hard to break up a family, however new. The term "showmance" comes to mind. I know it usually refers to a sudden and artificial intimacy of a romantic nature between two people, but I think it can happen to an entire cast, too. We've been up in each others' faces a lot, and right now we have a big, looming thing in common. It's weird to think that very soon that will simply not be true anymore.
Being in front of an audience is awesome. I am making the most of my "face in the crowd" status and amping up the crazy whenever I see a window. My stage "husband" actually told me I should tone it down because I'm pulling focus from the leads. Um, not likely.
I got a really nice compliment from a gal in the lobby the other night. She said she couldn't take her eyes off me. Yes, those were her words. And really, isn't that what every actor wants to hear? I'll take it!
Being backstage with 42 people has been challenging. While we're getting accustomed to our little inch of changing space and learning where to keep our stuff so it doesn't get trodden or moved, small skirmishes have broken out--mostly amongst the teens and children. Granted, the kids have it worse because they're actually in a circus tent behind the theater, where they swelter or freeze, depending. I'm grateful for my indoor inch.
There's been a lot of laughter and bawdy talk. I've learned some, ahem, terminology that I might have been better off not knowing, having avoided it until now. But the adults are getting along well enough that we've gone out together four times already. Friday night, when we filled five tables at The Red Fox Room, was especially fun.
By yesterday afternoon, I could see everyone was a little dead behind the eyes. Not onstage, mind you. During intermission, and after, when we were cleaning up. Last night, I felt like I was hallucinating a little bit while ready Jarrah a story. And I still didn't sleep well--curse you, time change! This first week makes me feel narcoleptic.
Now I have a few days off to recover. And while I know I could use the rest, there's a part of me that's already sad to realize we have only one more weekend before we scatter to the winds. It's hard to break up a family, however new. The term "showmance" comes to mind. I know it usually refers to a sudden and artificial intimacy of a romantic nature between two people, but I think it can happen to an entire cast, too. We've been up in each others' faces a lot, and right now we have a big, looming thing in common. It's weird to think that very soon that will simply not be true anymore.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Technical Decision
So just now, I'm in Walmart, looking for a slip. I know some of you are like "Whatever" and the rest of you are like "WHAT?! What were you doing in Wal-Mart?!" and to the latter I say "I KNOW." I went there because, like the brown-spotted owl, slips seem to be close to extinction in the wild. And no, I'm not, like, some LADY who wears a slip under my tweed suit when I go to tea (though I do go to tea) but rather, I require one for theatrical modesty: Nightgown + Backlighting = Need for Foundational Garments.
So I'm sluggishly flipping through the various Intimates, not finding anything, when I suddenly hear:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention." Only it wasn't all jovial and booming, like these announcements generally are when they're amplified, but sort of raspy and low and urgent. I craned my neck around until I located a gentlemen lurking in a corner over by coats with a microphone in his hand. His back was to me so I couldn't see his expression. The following is an exact--or as close to exact as I can recall--transcript of his remarks.
"In exactly two minutes, we'll be passing out to every person in the store over the age of 21, a razor-sharp, surgical steel knife."
I darted my eyes around, but I didn't see any other people nearby. I felt a little chill and a flutter in my stomach. Passing out? To every person? Razor-sharp? SURGICAL? TWO MINUTES?!?
Good lord, is Wal-Mart staging their own version of The Hunger Games? First they're going to arm us all, then funnel us into a caged-off arena near the diapers, where we'll be forced to slash at each other until only one stands, who'll be sent home bloodied but triumphant with a Malibu Dream House and a shotgun.
The announcer continued: "Do NOT run. Walk slowly to the center of the store. Leave your carts behind, as space will be limited."
For a split second, I actually contemplated making a mad sprint to the exit. Could I make it before they locked and chained the doors? Would there be guards? I wondered if it was already too late. Oh why oh why didn't I just go to Macy's and pay a little more? I WANT TO LIVE! This never happens in Target! They let you accidentally spend your $200 in peace!
But now two minutes had passed without incident or the piping in of "Welcome to the Jungle," so I decided I could breathe again. I was over by the pantyhose when I heard the announcer, a couple aisles over, saying "And how are you doing this afternoon, little lady?" to an unseen little lady in question. It didn't sound so sinister anymore, but I wasn't taking any chances. I got the hell out of there.
And in case you were wondering? Macy's Intimates contained about 3, 217 bras and 1 slip. Which I bought.
But Wal-Mart doesn't have any. If you want free razor-sharp knives, however, you should hightail it over post-haste.
So I'm sluggishly flipping through the various Intimates, not finding anything, when I suddenly hear:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention." Only it wasn't all jovial and booming, like these announcements generally are when they're amplified, but sort of raspy and low and urgent. I craned my neck around until I located a gentlemen lurking in a corner over by coats with a microphone in his hand. His back was to me so I couldn't see his expression. The following is an exact--or as close to exact as I can recall--transcript of his remarks.
"In exactly two minutes, we'll be passing out to every person in the store over the age of 21, a razor-sharp, surgical steel knife."
I darted my eyes around, but I didn't see any other people nearby. I felt a little chill and a flutter in my stomach. Passing out? To every person? Razor-sharp? SURGICAL? TWO MINUTES?!?
Good lord, is Wal-Mart staging their own version of The Hunger Games? First they're going to arm us all, then funnel us into a caged-off arena near the diapers, where we'll be forced to slash at each other until only one stands, who'll be sent home bloodied but triumphant with a Malibu Dream House and a shotgun.
The announcer continued: "Do NOT run. Walk slowly to the center of the store. Leave your carts behind, as space will be limited."
For a split second, I actually contemplated making a mad sprint to the exit. Could I make it before they locked and chained the doors? Would there be guards? I wondered if it was already too late. Oh why oh why didn't I just go to Macy's and pay a little more? I WANT TO LIVE! This never happens in Target! They let you accidentally spend your $200 in peace!
But now two minutes had passed without incident or the piping in of "Welcome to the Jungle," so I decided I could breathe again. I was over by the pantyhose when I heard the announcer, a couple aisles over, saying "And how are you doing this afternoon, little lady?" to an unseen little lady in question. It didn't sound so sinister anymore, but I wasn't taking any chances. I got the hell out of there.
And in case you were wondering? Macy's Intimates contained about 3, 217 bras and 1 slip. Which I bought.
But Wal-Mart doesn't have any. If you want free razor-sharp knives, however, you should hightail it over post-haste.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Hands Up
Last week of rehearsal before Hell Week. And I'm already feeling nostalgic for something that's not over. A few days ago, our music director cut through the arrival hub-bub by plunking out the first few notes of "525,600 Minutes." Not only did a hush fall as thickly as snow, 40-odd voices rose with instant recognition: "How do you measure a year in the life?" It was the most beautiful, spontaneous thing, and one of those moments of sheer perfection that remind me there are others as sentimental about musical theater as I am.
I'm probably a little tired or stressed or something, though. A few days ago, I got this hive-y rash all over my arms and legs that itches like the dickens. I mean, so bad that I couldn't sleep through it. I went to the doctor and aside from saying "Any new stress?" he wasn't much interested. Told me to buy some Claritin. I didn't. It's getting better anyway.
Today we went with the Daisies to tour the El Cajon Police Station. It's brand new and gorgeous, filled with sunny workout rooms and terraces overlooking the mountains. But I actually got a bit scared when they took us into the jail. That gate clanging shut behind us. The big shower by the door which they said is used to rinse off pepper spray. And this great big wand on a hook--"Anyone know what this is?" our friendly Captain Tour Guide asked. "A taser!" I shouted. "A metal detector." Oh. And then the long bench inside with cuffs attached to the back of it, for check-in. "Sit down," he pretend-snarled. "Wanna know what it's like to be in jail?" Um, no, Officer, now that you mention it. No, thanks.
Then he took us to the cells. First he checked with a plainclothes detective: "Got a body coming through?" Yipes. A body. He guided pairs of girls into the plain white cells and shut the doors, showing us how if you're really naughty you get your food through the little mail slot half-way down. The cells almost threw me into a panic attack. They are really small, with just a hard bench, a metal toilet and a concrete floor. No windows. I am severely claustrophobic and if I'd been inclined towards a life of crime, the sight of that cell alone would have deterred me.
Jarrah was eager to ask the most important question, in her opinion: "What do you feed the prisoners?" Happy Meals, as it turns out. "With the toy?" she pressed. She's a hard-nosed investigator, that one. But her question was not the most fabulous of the day. That prize would go to the little girl who had been examining the orange outlines in the bullet-proof indoor shooting range.
"So, they just ask the bad guys to stand in front of these?" she asked, casual as a summer breeze. I snort-laughed into my arm but not before the girl's mom heard me. I think she was laughing, too. Priceless.
I'm probably a little tired or stressed or something, though. A few days ago, I got this hive-y rash all over my arms and legs that itches like the dickens. I mean, so bad that I couldn't sleep through it. I went to the doctor and aside from saying "Any new stress?" he wasn't much interested. Told me to buy some Claritin. I didn't. It's getting better anyway.
Today we went with the Daisies to tour the El Cajon Police Station. It's brand new and gorgeous, filled with sunny workout rooms and terraces overlooking the mountains. But I actually got a bit scared when they took us into the jail. That gate clanging shut behind us. The big shower by the door which they said is used to rinse off pepper spray. And this great big wand on a hook--"Anyone know what this is?" our friendly Captain Tour Guide asked. "A taser!" I shouted. "A metal detector." Oh. And then the long bench inside with cuffs attached to the back of it, for check-in. "Sit down," he pretend-snarled. "Wanna know what it's like to be in jail?" Um, no, Officer, now that you mention it. No, thanks.
Then he took us to the cells. First he checked with a plainclothes detective: "Got a body coming through?" Yipes. A body. He guided pairs of girls into the plain white cells and shut the doors, showing us how if you're really naughty you get your food through the little mail slot half-way down. The cells almost threw me into a panic attack. They are really small, with just a hard bench, a metal toilet and a concrete floor. No windows. I am severely claustrophobic and if I'd been inclined towards a life of crime, the sight of that cell alone would have deterred me.
Jarrah was eager to ask the most important question, in her opinion: "What do you feed the prisoners?" Happy Meals, as it turns out. "With the toy?" she pressed. She's a hard-nosed investigator, that one. But her question was not the most fabulous of the day. That prize would go to the little girl who had been examining the orange outlines in the bullet-proof indoor shooting range.
"So, they just ask the bad guys to stand in front of these?" she asked, casual as a summer breeze. I snort-laughed into my arm but not before the girl's mom heard me. I think she was laughing, too. Priceless.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Newsic
Jarrah and drove around on Friday trying to find waterproof clothing for our trip to the snow (which, in February in San Diego, is a fool's errand) so we spent a lot of time in the car. One of the radio stations was having a "Founding Fathers of Rock" weekend to go with President's Day(s.) I explained to Jarrah that this was the reason we were hearing so many great songs in a row.
Sam: This can be the beginning of your music education.
Jarrah: What music education?
Sam: Well, I figure you gotta choose: you can know the words to every song in the world like your mommy, or you can be like your father and not recognize any songs at all.
Jarrah: Hmmm. I think I'll do both.
Sam: Oh?
Jarrah: Yeah, I can listen to songs with you, and I can listen to the radio with Daddy.
Sam: Oh, and by radio, you mean all the talking, right?
Jarrah: Right. Stories.
Sam: And what are these stories about?
Jarrah: (smiling) Dead people!
Sam: Oh, dear. And you enjoy these stories about dead people?
Jarrah: (smiling more) Yeaaaaaaah.
Sam: This can be the beginning of your music education.
Jarrah: What music education?
Sam: Well, I figure you gotta choose: you can know the words to every song in the world like your mommy, or you can be like your father and not recognize any songs at all.
Jarrah: Hmmm. I think I'll do both.
Sam: Oh?
Jarrah: Yeah, I can listen to songs with you, and I can listen to the radio with Daddy.
Sam: Oh, and by radio, you mean all the talking, right?
Jarrah: Right. Stories.
Sam: And what are these stories about?
Jarrah: (smiling) Dead people!
Sam: Oh, dear. And you enjoy these stories about dead people?
Jarrah: (smiling more) Yeaaaaaaah.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Pleasantville
Jarrah is feeling better, finally. She missed nearly a week of school, and has gotten rather skinny, but she's chipper again. We are having fun learning to tell time, as we've finally found a math-related area in which I feel confident. Sure, subtraction taxes me, but anyone can tell you that I'm always prompt.
David is still excited about his race car driving. Tinkers on the car, learning to install brakes (good lord) and whatnot. I guess I'm glad he's having fun without drugs.
I am attending several rehearsals a week, and despite wishing I had more to do, I am in love with the whole process. Learning the songs, and singing them in four-part harmony with other people, makes me incredibly happy. Speaking of happy, I'm pretty sure this is the nicest cast ever. Just hanging out with them would be reason enough to like rehearsals.
As the weather improves (like, from '60s to '70s--we really suffer here) I've been taking a lot of brisk morning walks. My main motivator is a little thing on my iPhone called "AOL Radio" that someone told me about. It has all these theme stations that continuously delight me, like "Gay Anthems" and "Party Tracks" and "Super '70s." Speaking of the latter, I have always bragged that I'm the ultimate expert on '80s music, and now I discover somewhat soberly that it's really '70s tunes where my powers of recall are unmatched. What a crazy decade, spanning disco, folk and classic rock--and all of it has its place on my walks.
Walking gives me a nice overview of the neighborhood, as I first pass two churches (Lutheran and Mormon) then the sprawling park where the ladies sweat at their morning Boot Camp Class (lots of pulleys and medicine balls, very scary) the municipal pool with gals in flowery bathing caps bobbing to the music, the library where I love to inhale deeply, the middle school. Then around to the main street where I pass the bank, the supermarket, a gas station, a taco shop (tantalizing early-morning tortillas wafting out the vents) the 50-year-0ld diner, the donut shop and dressmakers, a nail salon and finally, the shiny, new whorehouse.
Whorehouse, you say? Surely you jest. Well, help me out here: It's called "Massage Spa" and has a big "GRAND OPENING" sign hanging over the doors. Which are smoked, opaque glass, and there are no windows. With no advertisements of any kind listed--no menus, price lists, descriptions of the KIND of massages available therein. There's one of those neon "OPEN" signs that seems to be lit 24 hours a day. And I never see anyone go in or out. Yup, I'm thinking it's our spanking-new, friendly neighborhood whorehouse. Every 50-year-old neighborhood with the largest population of octogenarians in the county needs one, don't you think?
David is still excited about his race car driving. Tinkers on the car, learning to install brakes (good lord) and whatnot. I guess I'm glad he's having fun without drugs.
I am attending several rehearsals a week, and despite wishing I had more to do, I am in love with the whole process. Learning the songs, and singing them in four-part harmony with other people, makes me incredibly happy. Speaking of happy, I'm pretty sure this is the nicest cast ever. Just hanging out with them would be reason enough to like rehearsals.
As the weather improves (like, from '60s to '70s--we really suffer here) I've been taking a lot of brisk morning walks. My main motivator is a little thing on my iPhone called "AOL Radio" that someone told me about. It has all these theme stations that continuously delight me, like "Gay Anthems" and "Party Tracks" and "Super '70s." Speaking of the latter, I have always bragged that I'm the ultimate expert on '80s music, and now I discover somewhat soberly that it's really '70s tunes where my powers of recall are unmatched. What a crazy decade, spanning disco, folk and classic rock--and all of it has its place on my walks.
Walking gives me a nice overview of the neighborhood, as I first pass two churches (Lutheran and Mormon) then the sprawling park where the ladies sweat at their morning Boot Camp Class (lots of pulleys and medicine balls, very scary) the municipal pool with gals in flowery bathing caps bobbing to the music, the library where I love to inhale deeply, the middle school. Then around to the main street where I pass the bank, the supermarket, a gas station, a taco shop (tantalizing early-morning tortillas wafting out the vents) the 50-year-0ld diner, the donut shop and dressmakers, a nail salon and finally, the shiny, new whorehouse.
Whorehouse, you say? Surely you jest. Well, help me out here: It's called "Massage Spa" and has a big "GRAND OPENING" sign hanging over the doors. Which are smoked, opaque glass, and there are no windows. With no advertisements of any kind listed--no menus, price lists, descriptions of the KIND of massages available therein. There's one of those neon "OPEN" signs that seems to be lit 24 hours a day. And I never see anyone go in or out. Yup, I'm thinking it's our spanking-new, friendly neighborhood whorehouse. Every 50-year-old neighborhood with the largest population of octogenarians in the county needs one, don't you think?
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