Once upon a time, I forgot to charge my cell phone. It was a busy day, naturally, since cell phone batteries are intuitive and only die on days that you have a lot to do. I went to visit one of the accessory kiosks in the mall, frantically trying to buy a car charger. Aziz, the kiosk clerk, would not only give me a car charger, but a good story as well. This is that story.

Me: Hi, I need to buy a car charger for my phone.
Aziz: I have.
Me: Excellent! Thank you so much.
Aziz: There you go. (he hands me a phone battery)
Me: No, not a battery. I would like a charger.
Aziz: This will charge phone.
Me: Yes, but I want something that I can plug in. To my car.
Aziz: This is battery.
Me: I already have a battery.
Aziz: But it no work. 

          You have to agree with his logic. Yes, I could have bought a new battery, but it was the principle of the thing. I’m stubborn and I want what I want. I wanted Aziz to give me a charger.

Me: My battery will work once I charge it. I would like to buy a charger.
Aziz: Ah, okie dokie. (unlocks kiosk display case) There you go. (hands me a wall charger)
Me: I hate to be picky, but I need a car charger.
Aziz: Yes. Is car charger.
Me: This is a wall charger.
Aziz: Yes. Is charger for phone.
Me: Yes, it is a charger, but not the one I need. I need one for my car. 
Aziz: I give you charger. Okie dokie?
Me: (pantomimes driving)
Aziz: Ahhhh…(rummages through kiosk drawer and pulls out a car charger)
Me: Thank you! This is perfect. (smiles encouragingly)
Aziz: Sixteen dollars. Okie dokie?
Me: Okie dokie. Debit, please.
Aziz: No! (gasps and takes a step back) For that, you must go to the Holy Land.

Me: …pardon?

Aziz: For to pay, you must first go to the Holy Land.
Me: Um…here’s my debit card.
Aziz: Please to pay cash.
Me: I don’t have any cash, just my card.
Aziz: Ah, then you must go to the Holy Land. I keep charger safe until you return. Goodbye.  

Me: I’m really lost here. What are we talking about?
Aziz: You go to Holy Land. I would take you myself, but I must stay here. Thieves, you understand…
Me: I wish.
Aziz: You will walk toward the Macy’s and you will find it.
Me: …find what?
Aziz: The Holy Land you seek.
Me: Hmm. Okie dokie.

           So, I walked towards the Macy’s, and lo and behold, I did find the Holy Land which I sought! As it turns out, The Holy Land is more than a place of pilgrimage in the middle east; it is also the name of a kiosk that sells salts from the Dead Sea and oils presumably imported from Israel. They are the only kiosk in the mall currently outfitted to process debit or credit card payments, so in order to purchase something electronically, one must first visit the Holy Land. Ironic? I think not. Hilarious? Absolutely.

     By nature, I am not a 21st century feminist. The battles of suffrage and equality have been won, allowing me to live a full and satisfied life.
     To celebrate my feminine freedoms, I like to torture my husband. Whenever I feel that he is not pulling his domestic weight by cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping or changing the cat litter, I go on a little something that I call ’strike.’ I abruptly halt all domestic activity without warning or explanation. This is a highly passive aggressive and ineffective strategy intended to jumpstart my spouse into a cleaning frenzy, whereupon he will polish our home from top to bottom and give me a foot massage while saying “I now realize how difficult it must be for you to work a full time job, keep a clean house and cook tasty dinners, all while having consistently flawless hair and makeup.”
     The desired result is never achieved. After approximately three days of cold-turkey slob activity, I announce to my unsuspecting mate that he is lazy and unhelpful. This is almost always followed by a conversation so routine that we can now dialogue in our sleep.

Me: I would really appreciate it if you would try harder to keep our house clean.
Him: I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice.
Me: Like what?
Him: I vacuumed today.
Me: That doesn’t count.

     And it doesn’t, because we have one of those robot vacuums that zooms around the house and then returns to a docking station. Vacuuming our house is as labor intensive as turning on the television.
      His consistent and unsatisfactory reply is always the same. “I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice.” This statement is as broad and vague as a press release from the White House, and has a tendency to infuriate me. I repeat this sentence to myself ad nauseum as I clean the house, muttering under my breath like a lunatic.
     “I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice. I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice. I do a lot of things…”
     Recently, I went on strike for four days instead of the usual three. At the end of the four days, when our house looked like a setpiece from the movie Twister, I began my routine interrogation. In his always calm and affable manner, he responded with a variation on his usual theme.

Me: Do you like living in squalor? Do you?!
Him: I do a lot of things. I just don’t brag about them. 

     I don’t brag. Really. I merely take him on a tour of our house every day that I do something, kind of like a docent in a museum or a hall monitor at school. “Notice how brilliantly the mirrors shine! Observe how our floors sparkle! Look at how neatly the towels are folded – each one measuring exactly eight by twelve inches!” Some part of me truly believes that my excitement will be so contagious that he’ll want to know how I did it, and that he will begin his quest to become as awesome as I am by cleaning the toilet. 

Me: Can you please elaborate? What is it that you do?
Him: Have you ever the noticed cobwebs on the shudders outside?
Me: No.
Him: See? I do stuff.

     His list went on to contain such obscure tasks as cleaning the coils of the refrigerator, caulking the shower, planting grass in the front yard, and an exclusive at-home service that he calls ’24-hour tech support.’
     Had I really been so blind? I thought all houses came with grass. I thought that grass happened. I honestly believed that the shower had just stopped leaking and that the buzzing noise from the refrigerator had gone on vacation. It never occurred to me to wonder why.
     All this time I had badgered him about being unappreciative of my housekeeping, and I never even noticed his contributions. In retrospect, it seems silly for me to think that our microwave stayed pristine on its own, or that the faulty printer just magically fixed itself. I should have noticed, applauded, trumpeted trumpets and given foot rubs. But I was too busy painting signs for my upcoming cleaning strike to notice.
     I asked him why he never told me about these things, especially when I was in my full harpy-mode. He just shrugged his shoulders and made a grunting sound that I think meant “because I like screwing with you.”
     Now that I’m on to his little schemes, there’s no stopping my gratitude. Sometimes I thank him for made up things, just in case he had something to do with it. “Thanks for the leaves on the oak tree” I’ll say, wondering if he was responsible for putting them there. In some ways, I think he is a little upset to be getting the extra attention. As a doer of anonymous good deeds, he could listen to me gripe with a smile of self satisfaction. But now that he’s told me and I’ve told you, his cover is blown.
     If it were me, I would feel extra pressure to do more good things that nobody notices, just to keep the game going. As it is, I know that he feels no anxiety about his self-appointed chores. The silent crusader, he is happy in the knowledge that his duties will continue to be fulfilled and appreciated, even if they are not noticed.

     At the end of a long day, you settle down for the night. You pull the covers in close, you adjust your pillow and get comfortable, but not too comfortable because you’re not ready for sleep just yet. You take yourself through your prayers; thanks and praise come first, followed by personal needs and desires, then moving outward to family, close friends, work, acquaintances, the city, the state, the country, the world, and ending with the always-present and ever-fervent prayer asking blessing for your tiny family. Thy will be done. Amen. Now I lay me down to sleep. You readjust, this time settling in for the long haul. You pull your hair up and backward so that it lays on the pillow, stretched out behind you like a superhero’s cape so that it doesn’t tickle your neck while you sleep. You wiggle your toes, scratch what needs scratching, close your eyes and try to concentrate. on. nothing. Your mind is filled with the day, with tomorrow, with next week, with the laundry in the dryer that still needs folding and putting away, but you tell your mind to be quiet, please, and rest. Shhh. Like a child, it argues with you for a while, but soon gets tired and gives in, despite its protestations. You realize unremarkably that your breathing has slowed to a gentle rhythm that is deeper than your waking breath, but you divert your attention so you don’t accidentally change it and ruin its natural perfection. You enjoy the light show that is happening behind your eyelids, as light appears and disappears, swirling, intensifying, dimming and melting from one color to the next, just like Never Never Land. You notice that your body has warmed the sheets and the pillow to the perfect cocoon-like temperature and you delight in the sensation of warmth below but cool up above as your face confronts the slight and perfect chill of the world outside of your bed. You dip your toes in the pool of your unconsciousness, slipping in one little piece of yourself at a time. You are floating, flying, walking effortlessly through that perfect meadow with the sunlight bathing your body and the wind perfectly tousling your hair, where the grass isn’t too prickly or too dewy. You journey on this vast and beautiful plane, travelling towards the sun and those two precisely symmetrical puffy clouds on either side of it. This walk could last forever and never grow dull, nor the sun grow too hot, nor the sky a less beautiful shade of blue. You are coming from nowhere and headed to the same place and all is right with you. The world’s most pristine dandelion waits for you at the edge of this brilliantine field, waiting to be plucked, wished on and blown into the sweetest of springtime air, and just before your eager fingertips snap it from the earth

you trip over a rock.

body seizing and lurching forward.

You wake up.

Toss. Turn. Sigh. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

          Since my husband begins a new job on Monday (woohoooooooo!), we have spent some time perusing the details of his new benefits; exploring our coverage options, figuring out the cost, when they take effect, etc, etc. As I looked over the materials, one unusual phrase seemed to stick out more than the rest.

ACCIDENTAL DEATH & DISMEMBERMENT COVERAGE

          Huh? Dismemberment?! Is that common? Is it accidental death and accidental dismemberment, or is it dismemberment and accidental death? Precisely how many deaths each year are classified as “intentional?” For that matter, how many dismemberments aren’t?
          So, I looked into it and discovered these fortifying morsels of information regarding the optional AD&D coverage. According to www.insurance.com, “In the event of a fatal accident or an accident that results in you losing your eyesight, speech, hearing, or a limb, AD&D will pay you or your beneficiaries a specified amount.”
          OK. This seems like a good idea. Since I, like the Boy Scouts, am always prepared, I can see the advantages to expecting the unexpected, ie, planning for the possibility of dreadful injury caused in an unexpected accident. Which is to say, injury caused in the event of any accident; accidents being, by their very nature, a surprise. The article continues: “exclusions of AD&D coverage include death during surgery…bacterial infection… risky activities such as skydiving, car racing, and involvement in a war.”
          Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Excludes death during surgery? Excuse me, but who schedules a surgery without the specific intent of prolonging or improving quality of life? That seems to me to be an accidental death. Bacterial infection? Do you know anyone who’s contracted one of those on purpose?
          Skydiving? Okay. Car racing? Eh. Involvement in a war? Excuse me, but aren’t these people at a higher risk of AD&D? Wouldn’t you rather charge them a higher premium, or make available to them a more expensive option in the event of their accidental death or dismemberment? And while we’re at it, why should military personnel be excluded?
          Or are they? 
          Upon closer examination, this clause may have nothing whatsoever to do with persons enlisted in the military, as the phrasing is very vague. “Involvement in a war.” Should this be read to imply that victims of war crimes or wartime events will not be covered under policies that have been opened in preparation for precisely this purpose? Aside from the fact that the whole insurance thing is basically a scam anyway (Hey you schmuck, pay us your hard-earned money just in case something bad happens and if it does, we’ll cover a part of your outrageous medical bills, but if it doesn’t we’ll keep your money anyway!), isn’t that a little – how shall I put this? – screwed up? It’s a lot like property and automobile insurance companies not offering coverage for Acts of God, such as unforeseen weather damage, tidal waves or lightning strikes. Funny how a country that is trying it’s hardest to cut God out of every corner is rife with insurance companies that are allowed to worm their way out of doing their duty by invoking His name. Here’s a question for you: should atheists get coverage for Acts of God?
          I say all of this to explain that I find the idea of accidental insurance to be very…icky. Nobody likes to think about the possibility of tragedy or harm striking their loved ones, nor should we be forced to dwell on the matter. The entire concept of charging people money for their emotional peace of mind is cloudy. I hate knowing that it is someone’s job to determine how many people will pass away this year from accidental dismemberment, and I hope that they have some really super-fun hobbies that take their mind off of their grim occupation. I also hate knowing that it is someone else’s job to find ways of not paying – and thereby, not helping – those who have suffered just such a tragedy. The ideas are right, but the execution of them is all wrong. You either exist to provide help to those in need, or you don’t, plain and simple. No special clauses, addendums, footnotes or fine print. Just help.
          Please understand that my discomfort lies with life insurance policies, not health or automobile insurances. Insurance is a wonderful thing, and it exists in many forms. The technical definition of insurance is “protection against future loss.” Be it having a spare tire, locking your doors at night, going to the bathroom in pairs, writing answers to a quiz on your hand or having unopened chips and salsa in the pantry in case unexpected company comes over, we are all wired to be prepared and to provide insurance for ourselves and our families, protecting each other against future losses. I guess the best that we can hope for is that the guy in the office who reviews our fancy insurance policies is truly on our side and understands what its like when you can’t find that spare key that you could have sworn you left under the doormat, and what a pickle you’re in now because it’s missing.  All we can do is trust that he has chosen this line of work with the intent of helping people through the most difficult times in their lives. We put a lot of faith in those people that we’ll never meet, hoping that they have our best interests at heart and will be there in our time of need.
          But just in case he isn’t as responsible as he should be, I ask for all of you to do yourselves one simple favor. Please, keep your hands and arms inside moving vehicles at all times and wait until they have come to a complete stop.

P.S. My husband would like for me to include the fact that he will be working for a highly respected cellular phone company, thereby risking very little chance of accidental dismemberment.

          When I was seventeen, I decided that I needed to work somewhere ‘non-theatrical.’ Perhaps this was my halfhearted attempt at having that oft-referred-to backup plan in case my career in theatre took a nosedive, or perhaps I just wanted to see things in broad daylight, instead of 02 Amber. Whatever the reason, I marched myself to the nearest mall and thirty minutes later found work as a makeup artist at a struggling portrait studio.
          Okay, okay. I realize that a makeup artist at a photography chain is still not completely normal, but it was the closest my teenage self could get to a ‘real job’ while keeping some means of what I thought was creative expression. It was early March and my first assignment was to pick up our Easter Bunny from mall security. The studio was advertising Easter photos with a real bunny, but all animals entering the mall had to be check by security first. So I got my little employee ID badge and trotted off towards the customer service office, full of self-importance and anticipation over meeting the bunny.
          The security guard didn’t even look up from his newspaper when I gave my prepared speech about who I was and what business I was attending to. He finished reading his article, drained his cup of coffee and then casually reached under his desk, withdrawing an empty carrier. “You’ll have to gimme a minute,” he said, hiking up his belt and waddling to the back door. “The rest of the gang is takin’ pitchers of yer rabbit out back.”
          As I waited in the smoke-filled office, I thought it sweet, if not a waste of tax-payer dollars, that members of the local police squad were soft-hearted enough to want their photo with a cute little white Easter bunny. The guard soon returned and, with a sardonic smile, handed me the now-occupied carrier. “Hope you like him.”
          The little bundle, who I had already named Mr. Cadbury, was barely visible through the holes in the carrier, but I knew that the two of us would become fast friends. I arrived back at the store, carrying my package with pride, beaming with the knowledge that I had completed my first task without mishap. I gathered the rest of the staff around me, faced the door of the carrier toward my eager audience and opened it. The crowd gasped in delight.

          “Holy crap, he looks like Fidel Castro,” announced my boss.

          He really did. Mr. Cadbury was a rich tan color – around the shade of coffee ice cream – with black, furry-caterpillar-style markings over each eye and under his little pink nose. The eyebrows gave him a scowling appearance, accented by the fact that his ears, also black, were maybe two inches shorter than they should have been. Throw in a cigar and a missile and I don’t think anyone could have seen the difference.
          My boss assigned the other makeup artist to my first appointment and told me to get on the phones with the bunny-man and demand a more photogenic rabbit. Talking to seasonal animal pimps about a rabbit’s questionable facial hair was not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to get a normal job. Nevertheless, I attacked my task with vigor, merely to find out that Mr. Cadbury was the only bunny in the region who was willing to work for less than $400 a week during peak modeling season. It should have come as no surprise to hear that our little dictator got less work than his monochromatic friends. We were stuck with him.
          The only people interested in having their photo taken with the hairy communist were the security guards. We had a difficult enough time convincing parents that the eyebrows and mustache could be removed in post-editing, but when word got around that Mr. Castro-bury couldn’t see a camera flash without urinating, it became nearly impossible to book Easter portraits. Nobody wants to be pissed on by a fascist rabbit.
          Since we weren’t busy, I spent most of my hours there tending to Mr. Castrobury. I fed and watered him, took him for walks around the studio, made him practice his smile for the camera and cut up newspaper for his carrier – he seemed to prefer articles on foreign affairs, but it was hard to tell. Because taking care of a rabbit is about as time consuming as singing Little Bunny Foo Foo, I had plenty of time to get to know everyone else at the studio.
          Our boss had three phone numbers, each with its specific use. One was to her mobile home where she lived with her husband and six children, another was her boyfriend’s apartment, and the third was her emergency cell phone that we were permitted to call only if her husband or boyfriend tried to contact her at work when she was absent. Once, I accidentally phoned her trailer and got her husband when I should have called her boyfriend. The next day, she docked my commission.
          My co-workers were a SitCom writer’s dream. There was Sylve, the pregnant hair stylist who spent all day, every day, reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting and drinking soy milk. I don’t think I ever saw her do one bit of work, or hear her say anything but “I can’t do that; I’m pregnant.” Then there was the gay man who had a sex change operation during my second week and changed his name from Harvey to Andrea. Andrea fell in love with her female nurse from the clinic, consequently becoming a lesbian and remaining homosexual. I have often wondered if that meant that Andrea’s girlfriend was straight or gay, although I guess it hardly matters.
          Camille was my favorite. She was a stunningly beautiful black woman from Canada who was so afraid of other black people that she would hide behind the counter when they came into the studio. Her explanation was simple; she’d never met any black people in Canada. There was another 17-year-old who worked the part time shift opposite mine, but he was arrested for dealing drugs in the parking lot. To round out the cast, we had two photographers; one looked and sounded just like Joe Pesce, while the other one wore an eye patch and went by the name of ‘Moo.’ I never did figure out how he took such good pictures with just one eye.
          Business was dreadfully slow. I applied makeup for maybe twenty people the entire month of March. After the drug arrest and an incident where Camille refused service to an African-American customer on the grounds that she looked ‘suspicious,’ I began spending most of my time in the front window with Mr. Castrobury, trying to distance myself from the rampant weirdness of the staff. One day I tried dressing him in a pair of black-rimmed glasses with the hopes that I could make him look like Groucho Marx, but it didn’t boost sales the way I thought it would.
          The week after Easter, I overheard my boss telling the lesbian man that she would have to lay off at least one of her part-time employees because of low revenue. That same day, she gave me instructions to pack up Mr. Castrobury’s things and take him back to the security office, where he would be picked up by his owner-slash-agent. I took my time that day with cleaning his carrier, making sure he had interesting reading material for the trip home, filling his water bottle and feeding him lettuce leaves, treasuring our last moments together. I walked him down to the security office, and then walked right out the mall doors and across the street, without so much as a glance back.
          Part of me felt a little tinge of regret, of sadness even. I had this overwhelming sense that I had failed at something so simple, that I was a quitter. Then I realized that if “normal” meant sitting around all day doing nothing but listening to my co-workers gossip and convincing customers that the Easter Bunny had nothing to do with foreign labor camps, then I had had my fill of it. I only worked there for six weeks, but it was one of the most valuable lessons of my life. Trust me; the real world is stranger than fiction.

Too many landmark events have already taken place in 2009 that I cannot possibly weave them all into one unified blog post. This will be one of those ‘current event’ entries, chronicling The Life of Me for my own posterity and for those few who are interested in the things that keep me busy. Please, make way for a very self-indulgent, rambling and disjointed list of My Year So Far.

The first significant event is that Circuit City announced their upcoming liquidation and closing of all stores. This news knocked us over for a few days, but I am proud to say that we are hopeful. I know that what is happening is God’s will, not mine, and that His is always better, even if it is more vague. Knowing this means that my anxiety now comes in small waves instead of crushing typhoons; which is a vast improvement. My husband is intelligent, capable, immediately likeable and extraordinarily hirable, so I have no doubt that he will find a job. While I suppose anything that pays the bills will be fine, I really want him to have a job that he loves and that brings him as much joy and pride as possible.

The good news is that, unlike so many others this quarter, we have been given advance warning and a severance package to cushion the blow. This surprise will hopefully lead us to something even better. Nonetheless, keep us in your prayers and let us know about any job opportunities that you hear of.

The next event is Christmas. Yes, in January. My parents’ favorite thing to do is to give extravagantly to those that they love, which always works out well for me. Watching them prepare for birthdays and anniversaries is really cute; every year they raise the bar a little higher. They seem to live for surprising each other.

For Christmas 2008, my mom bought premium tickets to a Cirque du Soleil performance in Atlanta, complete with hotel suites and a fabulous dinner at her favorite gourmet Mexican restaurant in Atlantic Station. Since we’re all big-time Cirque fans, we were excited just to see their new show, Kooza. As it turns out, they were Tapis Rouge tickets, which meant that we had access to a private tent where they served hors d’oeuvres, cocktails and champagne before the show and desserts (chocolate fondue, anyone?) at intermission. Tres chic.

The show was indescribably cool. From the trapeze to the contortion, the high wire to the juggling, the charivari to the Wheel of Death (everything sounds more menacing when you put ‘of death’ at the end of it), the entire performance was spectacular! I was completely blown away by the Unicycle Duo – a couple who did the most beautiful pas de deux I’ve ever seen while riding and balancing themselves on one unicycle – the aforementioned Wheel of Death that makes every part of my body tingle just wondering what it feels like to be on that thing, and of course all of the lighting, costumes, makeup, scenery, music and sound that makes Cirque so superior to…well…everyone else. I want to run away with the circus.

As if this experience could possibly be topped, the next night we were treated to an evening of entertainment that can only be titled ‘once-in-a-lifetime.’  To make a long story short, years upon years ago, the then-non-profit Savannah Theatre Company produced The Wiz, with my mom as Assistant Director. I was only eleven at the time, so I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but somewhere along the way our title character dropped out of the show, leaving us without a wizard. What I do remember precisely is the day that Darryl Jovan Williams auditioned to fill the role. He introduced himself very quietly, was instantly warm and kind with everyone and then knocked our socks off with his powerful, smooth tenor voice. Over the years, he would become a dear friend to my mom and dad and a mentor to me. He taught me where Middle C was on the piano and he explained to me how to tell when cows are in heat, both invaluable pieces of information when you’re doing live theatre in Georgia. Darryl and my parents shared many adventures together, each worthy of their own blog post.

Fast-forward about thirteen years into this movie and you’ll find my parents, Vann, Darryl and I having lunch in a little restaurant in downtown Atlanta just hours before his opening Jesus Christ Superstar the Gospel at the Alliance Theatre, with his name in the program as Musical Arranger, Choral Director and the leading role of Judas. This re-working of the 1970’s musical was sanctioned by the Really Useful Group with the blessing of Sirs Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber, thanks to the musical genius of Louis St. Louis and, of course, Darryl Jovan Williams. He invited us to attend the red carpet events prior to the show, the opening performance itself and a rockin’ after party where we got to rub elbows with the cast and crew.
            It’s hard to express the emotions that I was feeling that night; awe and pride are among the top two. The show was…incandescent. The gospel arrangements added a whole new depth and flavor to the piece that the original now seems to be lacking. The performance made me smile with my whole self every time I saw or heard Darryl, but then it made me literally weep during JC’s (played sublimely by Darius de Haas) Gesthemane. I could go on and on about this performance and all of its amazing attributes; the lighting that enhanced every dramatic moment or the gospel choir that could wail so fiercely that your ears might believe they’ve died and gone to Ear Heaven or the subtle changes in plot and intention that they made to the script, but I would just be spoiling it for everyone that will get the chance to know and love this musical when it goes to West End and Broadway. Oh, and guess who got their picture taken with and kissed by Ben Vereen – the original Judas, among other things! – at the after party? Oh, yeah. That’s right. Me.

I think Darryl put it best when, after the performance, he said ‘I feel like we’ve come full circle.’ Darryl has been that wild card why-isn’t-he-famous-yet? member of my family for so long that seeing him there, that night, completely in charge and in his element, the proverbial man of the hour, seemed very poetic. I’m so proud of him and so excited for him. Everyone should be blessed to hear this man sing. If you haven’t, well, get yourself to Atlanta before the end of this month and prepare to be amazed. J

As I said, I could talk about this forever, but I would eventually run out of adjectives and you would be bored. And then I would never move on to writing about Bonnie and Brian’s wedding! It occurred to me as I was getting dressed for the ceremony that I’ve never been in a wedding other than my own and I all of a sudden became very nervous. What if I trip as I walk down the aisle? What if I have a sneezing attack during the ceremony? What if they make me do a toast? Fortunately, none of those things happened to me or anybody, and the entire weekend went off beautifully. Bonnie was truly beautiful and that’s all I can say about that without being superfluous. She worked so hard and so long planning this event of her dreams that it was really gratifying to see her enjoying herself in her imagination-turned-reality-winter-wonderland. I think everyone gets a little anxiety that real life can never really live up to your expectations, so it’s always a wonderful surprise when it really does. We wish many blessings and much bliss to the newly wedded couple.

Other notable events this January include having my car towed, learning Italian, realizing that I’m much closer to debt-free than I thought and reading a 365 Bible divided up for easy daily reading. So that’s my January…I told you it was busy. We shall return to your regularly scheduled blog programming next week. Thanks for sticking with me.

Dear I.R.S.,

Please cancel my subscription.

SONNETS

On M.L.K. day, only a handful of students attended our scheduled rehearsal for SCT’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Instead of blocking without all of our characters, I decided to spend the time introducing them to a little thing called the Shakespearian sonnet. After playing around with some of the Bard’s verse, I asked the students to write their own sonnets, using his unique format. I chose not to give them a writing theme or topic or opening line, but just to have them create words and phrases of their own, as they were inspired to do. Here are some of their offerings.

‘I stood alone and watched you dance.

You seemed to shine with ethereal light.

I approached you, took a breath, a chance,

But my disturbance shattered the illusion of that night.

Maybe our love was merely a dream,

A nightmare of when we joined to make us.

The haunting remnants of when it seemed

That we were honest and truly in love.

I’m still waiting for your memory to fade

But my heart won’t seem to let you go.

The many promises, under moonlight made,

Bitter falsehoods the morning light did show.

And so our love lies in the past,

Broken and destroyed, like shattered glass.’

A. Schulz, age 16

‘Standing in the midst of war

Deep inside his heart did search

A soldier praying to the skies for more

Time for life to leave its perch.

Staring at the blood around

Mixed with memories of early years

And fallen comrades slain on ground

Did awaken his darkest fears.

Tears shed for what just might have been

Had mankind been less a beast

He wept for unforgiven sin

And pondered on the devil’s feast.

For non but devil could cause such pain

As to fall in battle, never to rise again.’

                                                                K. Buice, age 15

‘The sun awakens a sleepy sky

Upon a dewy tree trunk I rest.

I wait and watch as the fire birds fly,

Igniting the sun, and brightness at its best.

The morning’s deafening silence rang

This forest is dead, yet so alive.

And in it so far, no birds have sang.

I haven’t been back here since the age of five.

Memories are stirring

I don’t want to come home.

I know changes are occurring.

A nearby river flows, covered by white foam.

As golden dawn turns into noon,

I know the time I dread is coming soon.’

B. Hegarty, age 13

‘The sun sets on a deep blue sea.

Heaven rises in the sky, waves blend with the clouds.

We sit on a bridge, a journey to be free.

There is no noise, but the silence is loud.

A sudden calm, like never felt before.

Wild, beautiful, killer creature slowly jumps high,

Jumps so high with a passion in her core.

One by one, millions come, with her they lie.

We look on with awe. I want to join, to swim along.

They wail, those whales, slowly swimming on a secret path.

If only this was real, not a dream or song

But still this sight rids me of all my wrath.

And somehow, they guide me as well,

Entrancing me in some magical spell.’

                                                                K. Charbonneau, age 15

‘A burst of life

A spark of light

To diminish strife

And end all plight.

An explosion of sound

An endless chatter

As people are found

By those that matter.

A sigh of relief

Is slowly amassed

With the certain belief

That the storm has passed.

And so people disperse back into the dawn

Now that the power is finally back on.’

                                                                M. Slotin, age 13

‘Sitting in the trees

All day long,

Swaying in the breeze

To my favorite song

Seeing little birds

Fly around me in the sky

Like they are in some sort of herd

Me wishing that I could fly

Dreaming as I sleep

So many happy things

Becoming so very deep

To my mind they would cling

Hoping to never wake

From this wonderful daily break.’

                                                                G. Anderson, age 16

‘The butterfly sucks the pollen out of the bloom

Flower protrudes out of the soil

The light shineth through the window at noon.

Wind softly flows, the grass looks royal,

The sweet sugar stirs in the tea.

Sun and moon love, stars neareth,

They switcheth in love. Me?

I try my love to pleaseth.

The torture apart,

A violin plays a soft melody.

The love we have is art,

When we come together, no fidelity.

The clouds are not crying

For I am not lying.’

                                                                N. Pearlman, age 13

Yeah, I mean it when I say these kids are awesome.

My favorite school activity was always the Creative Writing assignment, except for when it came time for those awful “What I Did on My Vacation” entries. Other kids would write things like “Today I slept until two o’clock, played basketball and ate macaroni and cheese.” Or sometimes “We went to visit my grandparents in South Carolina and went fishing. It was fun.” If it was a really good vacation, they might write “My family went to Disney World. Donald was my favorite.” Mine were never so direct or easy to understand. In fact, I still have one from fourth grade that reads like this:

“I had a lot of rehearsals on this ‘vacation.’ You couldn’t really call it a vacation, though, since I feel like I worked harder than I do when I’m at school. We had rehearsals almost every day for a play we’re doing called Gypsy and even though I’m only in the first act, there is a lot to be done. Gypsy is a play about a real-life stripper named Gypsy Rose Lee, and I play her when she’s a little girl (before she’s a stripper, that is).

“When I’m not on stage, I’m usually helping backstage with costumes or microphones. It was really difficult finding ways to hide the microphones this time, since most of the girls hardly wear anything, but my dad says that I’m the expert. I also get to help Michelle with all of her costume changes, which keeps me pretty busy because she’s the lead. We also had to paint and build the set, and that takes a long time. Some nights we were there until two or three in the morning, but to be honest, I like those nights the best.  
                 My favorite part of the play is “You Gotta Get a Gimmick.” That’s when all the different strippers show off their routines, like light-up panties, butterfly wings and Mazeppa who likes to “bump it with a trumpet.” It’s so funny. After all that work, mom says we need a vacation from our vacation. I agree.”

It may come as no surprise that I rarely got to read my reports in their entirety, as my elementary school teachers were too afraid of what was coming next. Not all of my essays were about strippers; some were about learning how to load fake guns, makeup lessons from drag queens, or explaining the origin of the term avante garde, which I learned during a production of Mame. I have a vivid memory of consulting my second-grade teacher about the spelling of the word, since I couldn’t find it in the dictionary. She simply turned her head, raised her eyebrows and said “Well, if it ain’t in the dictionary, and if I ain’t heard of it, then it ain’t a real word.” This was the first time I ever felt smarter than an adult.

What did my teachers think I was doing with my nights and weekends, and how many times did they try to call child services? Fortunately, my principal from grades 3-6 was a community theatre participant himself. He and I acted alongside each other in many productions, including Gypsy, and we had a pact. “You never tell anyone at school that you’ve seen me dance in a cowboy costume,” he bribed, “and I’ll give you excused absences on your opening nights.”  It was a pretty good deal.

A few of my friends at school were also theatre kids, raised in unconventional environments. Like me, my friend Laura loathed What Your Parents Do at Work Day because neither of us could explain it properly. While I tried to enlighten my classmates on the intricacies of theatrical sound design, she had to tell everyone that her father was a music historian, or more aptly, a balladeer that attended outdoor festivals dressed as Uncle Sam, Henry VIII or a Civil War veteran singing jaunty, era-appropriate tunes. We would often find ourselves in conversations like this one:

ME: I can’t spend the night tomorrow, I have an opening.

THEM: A what?

ME: At the theatre. Remember, I said I was in a show?

THEM: Thee-ate-er? Like a movie?

ME: No, not a movie. A play.

THEM: A play? Like what we do here at school every Christmas?

ME: Yes, kind of.

THEM: Why’d anyone wanna do that on purpose?

ME: Well, it isn’t really like school plays. They’re better and more fun. You should come see me!

THEM: Yeah, alright.

They never came. I didn’t expect them to. I was quite content to lead a double-life, one filled with reading, writing and the dreaded arithmetic and kickball, the other filled with costumes, paint, glitter, lights, songs, dances and tangled plots that resolve in two hours or less. To this day I find it odd to answer the simple question of “so, what do you do?” without feeling like that little kid standing in front of her class, reading an essay about strippers.