Proclamation

I've decided. As of noon today. Mountain standard time. I renounce all things fuchsia.

Happy Easter! :)

Because I'm British!

You know the phrase, " At ______ (o'clock) anything is funny." For example, "At 3:00 in the morning anything is funny."

Last night was the opening of my kids' show at Creative Stages Youth Theatre. The play is titled "Funny at Birth" written and directed by the Artistic Director, Jim Gradillas. He is one of my favorite people. My daughter is the Asst Stage Manager, and my son is part of her crew for this show. The "after party" was a celebration of one of the cast member's birthday at IHOP. They spent two hours torturing waitresses and snorting eggs out of their noses. At least no one danced on the table. Not yet. Christmas future...

I picked them up just before midnight. When we pulled into the driveway, my son was asleep and my daughter was just getting started. She needs to decompress. Like her mom.

The boy kicked off his vans outside, peeled his shirt in the kitchen and walked out of his jeans in the doorway to his room. He crawled into bed, wrapped the comforter around himself, and rolled up into a ball. A size 11-wearing toddler.

The girl on the other hand needed. She needed. Attention. Many many minutes of attention. I love that about here. She regaled me with blow by blows from backstage. The kicking of asses, the pleading of tears, and the hugging of fears. As she processed she realized an hour later how much she loves stage managing. Once that realization began to gel, she needed to work through this major shift in self-perception. Relaying this brick and mortar inside her skin - inside her bones - and ultimately within her spirit NEEDED to happen right then. And so she labored and I supervised. My girl fascinates me.

Just before 1:30AM I suggested that she needed to sleep. She had rehearsal for one show tomorrow afternoon and was ASM for "Funny" that night as well. "But I n-e-v-e-r get to you have you all to myself for this long. Please! Please can we stay up longer?" I gave her 15 more minutes. I could have stayed up with her all night and some day in the not so distant future I'm sure I will.

Eventually I made my move toward the kitchen. She jumped up and blocked me from entering the hall. She had that look. Her eyebrow cocked, smiled crooked, and eyes narrowed.

"Come on Sweetie Pie, you've gotta go to bed."

"No I don't." But she said it with a british accent which I must say, at 1:30 in the morning, confused. me.

"C'mon Peanut, let's go."

"You Americans can't do anything right. You can't even sing a lullaby properly." Again with the accent. "We are so much better educated than you because we have wizardering schools..." followed by more random stuff and she concluded her speech by saying, "Because I'm British."

I thought I was going to pee in my pants right there.

I'm here to tell you that at 1:30 in the morning, after decompressing with a 14 year-old girl for an hour and a half, "Because I'm British." is not just funny. It's hilarious!

And then she knew she had me. So for another half an hour she speechified me and randomly added "Because I'm British." I finally walked her down to her room. She asked me if I would sing to her. After 14 years of this same song, you'd think that an Asst Stage Manager, who takes her job very seriously, would be eager to let go of our little bedtime ritual. But she's not. She crawled into bed, and I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her like I do every night. She smiled and cooed like she was four and rolled over with the comforter pulled up to her chin. "Why do you still like me to sing to you?"

"Because I'm British."

In Your Face

Facebook.

My husband broke the news to me while I was straightening my hair this morning, “The kids want Facebook accounts so they can stay in touch with their theatre friends.”

Huh. Now, see, I thought my husband and I were of the same opinion on this matter. We don’t use our kids’ names or put their photos on-line. We want them to have lives that are not forever documented on video for as long as possible.

Can you imagine? My god, I wouldn’t want more than 20% of my life before the age of 25 available on-line. And to be clear, that 20% would be me sleeping. In my own bed. Alone. In response to his bait, I said nothing.

Then I remembered my son telling me how Zander was taping rehearsals because this is the last show he can do with the youth company because he is now 18. (I use his name because he is 18, and because he readily uses his name all over the net.)

Facebook.

My son said on the way home from rehearsal this week that he kept running away from Zander because he didn’t want to wind up on Zander’s FB page. I felt like crap.

“No, buddy, that’s okay, you can be in his videos.”

“But mom, he’s going to upload them. You said—“

“Well. This is different.”

My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. So it would follow that they would first approach their dad with what was surely going to get shot down by me out of the gate. My husband is the harbinger of all-things-bad-ideas.

In the car this afternoon, I asked. “So. Dad said you guys want Facebook pages. Is that true?”

Daughter, “Yes.”

Son, “Uh-huh.”

Long dangerous pause.

I love wielding so much power. Mwaa-ha-ha. “Here are the ground rules…” They nodded and made we-understand noises. They didn’t care if I said they both had to do the laundry until they moved out. Darn it, why didn’t I say that? “Okay, you guys we’ll set up the accounts.”

My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. Here we go.

Facebook.

An Injury of Devastating Proportions

Well, it was bound to happen. I mean I’ve been walking this high wire for more than 30 years and these sorts of – what – mishaps are predictable. To be expected really. I was seriously injured yesterday. My right hand nonetheless. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to show up at the keyboard this morning. Much to my relief I am pecking. Not really typing and certainly not floating across the keys as is usual for me. Not nearly.

No stitches were required. Ice and Ibuprofen got me through the night. I notified my dear friend as to my impending absence from his inbox. Of course, he was deeply troubled to be left out in the cold by not receiving the requisite 14 emails a day from me. Devastated really. He asked. I hesitated. I knew he’d be upset.

“Laundry,” I wrote. “I have a laundry injury.”

“Laundry injury!! Oh, no!!” As you can see, he was so beside himself he could barely muster an appropriately distressed response.

When my husband emerged from his cave (read: our home office), I regaled him with the details. “You can always file for workers’ comp, baby,” he said with a particular smugness to his tone. “See how that goes for you.” He smiled and walked to the kitchen for an iced coffee. He did not even offer to pour me one. What was happening here? He didn’t lead me to chair to help me carefully sit my clearly traumatized body.

“What did you do?” he said passing me in the hall.

“I told you. I was putting up the empty hangers on the really high bar, and I tripped and grabbed a hold of them and jerked my right hand enough to burst a blood vessel.” I displayed my injury. “Just there, see?”

“There?”

“Oh for god’s sake that’s my wrist. No there. My middle finger. In the joint. It’s already black and blue. And swollen.”

“Oh right. Sorry. Looks bad,” he smiled – there was that smugness again. “Looks like no more laundry for you today.”

Ah-ha! That’s what I was looking for all along. Disability leave. How many days I wondered? Best not to discuss. Best to just tip toe around the hamper.

I looked at my poor, swollen finger and decided it needed ice again. Over my shoulder I called, “I bet I can’t even type.”

He said something like, “oooh” or “Mmm” or “Aaah” – something vaguely sympathetic before closing the office door behind him. Did he just close the door on my pain? On my disability? On me for god’s sake?

Humph. I pulled the freezer door open to retrieve the small ice bag. Well that’s fine, I thought. When he needs underwear, we’ll just see who displays a hint of smugness in her smile?

What Do Ottawa and Phoenix Have in Common: Just a Couple of Playwrights

On occasion I have blogged about the working relationship Canadian playwright Sterling Lynch and I have forged. Social media rules! I found my way onto Twitter in March, 2009. I searched for theatres and artists to follow. Sterling was among the first playwrights. But he was in Canada, so would it even be worth it to follow him? I mean, we weren’t going to have anything in common, but I followed him anyway. Given my sharp wit, astute intellect, and promise as a successful playwright, he followed back. I’m sure Sterling would agree. As predicted, we have nothing in common. Oddly enough we seem to work together quite well.

After a few months, we waded through each others' work. When I came across Tangelico two lines of dialogue begged for attention. I immediately thought of Brandon Wiley at Space 55 Theatre Ensemble here in Phoenix. (I’ll share those lines in another post.) I sent Brandon a text. Then the script. Then I waited. Brandon took the project to the Space 55 artistic director, Shawna Franks.

Brandon called me a week later. “We need another one-act to put up with Tangelico to make a full evening. Can you find something?” I paused. “Nothing will make any sense. Wait let me think. Yep, I got nothing,” A. Very. Long. Pause. “Hey! Why don’t you write one?” He trumpeted. I asked Sterling to call me. It was our first phone call, and I was about to ask him if I could basically steal his play. Well, not really, but sort of. He of course razzed me incessantly. I’m sure Sterling would agree. So. With much trepidation. I wrote A Cube With A View. A true one-act companion play to Tangelico.

Working on a companion play is a unique writing experience. I wanted A Cube With A View to stand on its own, but also depend on the primary piece. As I embarked on this challenge, I was completely calm, serene even… I’m sure Sterling would agree.

How did my play come together? Stay tuned for the nuts and bolts of building a companion play…

Blank Verse

Nine years ago I visited a rest home for patients living with Alzheimer's Disease in Stages III and IV. There are very few care facilities available to this population in the Phoenix area. I approached the activities director, and asked if I could come in once a week and lead them in creative writing. Lorraine sat down. I wanted to gather several members together in one of the cottage living rooms for a group writing session. Lorraine was surprised that I just showed up out of the blue. I had my reasons.

We talked about creative writing and how that might come together in an environment where inhibitions are low and free association and lyrical speech are readily accessible to them. She agreed and I came back the next week with pictures and prompts and an easel. Over the next several months, I asked questions and wrote down their reflections. We had a wonderful time.

Every now and again, I’m going to put up one of their poems for you all to enjoy. These writings were not compiled within the framework of any kind of poetic structure. I called them poetry because when I read the first one back to them, Nancy shouted, “A poem!” A poem indeed.

This is one of the earlier pieces. The line breaks are where thoughts ended or another individual started to speak. Fifteen residents participated in this session.

Others More Recent

Redwoods in Northern California the size of a dinning room

Reflections

Creations of God

Snow on mountain tops

Hiking for flowers during spring

It’s really good – that part of it

You can just look at it—

And that makes it almost…

Nebraska—Lincoln—the capitol where my father was born.

Eight of us picking pears along the Northern Coast

Old cactus country—Douglas, Arizona

Climbing trees all the time - when I wasn’t falling down that is (sly smile)

Swinging on ropes ascending too high, more than mama wanted.

I looked all around that place—

My most favorite thing was climbing those mountains.

Off to the woods…where we got into a lot of trouble was what we got (laugh)

My cousins and our gang, my brother and sister, and me—oh boy!

Then there was the time my father took me to see Harry Truman give a speech…now that was somethin’…

Places I’ve gone and mountains I’ve climbed, some long ago, others more recent.

What's so damn funny about that?

I suddenly realized last week that the first decade of the 21^st century is coming to an end. Since then, I’ve been thinking about what the last ten years have looked like for my family and me. I wanted to wax poetic here, but that is best left to the poets in my life. So, to sum up, we have experienced love and loss, victory and defeat, renewed hope and bitter despair. Not much different from your lives, I’m sure.

What made these years, and every year, bearable and illuminated, has been our ridiculous and fairly inappropriate collective sense of humor. Our familial meta-humor if you will. We make each other laugh to the point of gasping for air, pulling stomach muscles and shedding tears.

Even when my brother and I are at total odds with each other – barely able to be in the same room together – he can pull just the right movie quote out of thin air and make me pee in my pants (which is not that hard since I’ve given birth to two children). Or how about the days when my daughter would rather drill under her finger nails than hear my voice one more time, she will sing out “I LOVE YOU, MOM!” which is meant to sound like the F-bomb curse. I always laugh and then she laughs.

But sometimes the feelings are just too big for humor right in the moment, and so we make a gesture in unsure and awkward ways to give each other space for a little while. And sometimes, maybe especially in those times, we need permission to laugh again.

My mother died in 2007. That first week, I cried, but mostly I withheld so many tears that I could barely swallow. A whole gaggle of family arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport that week in August. Twenty minutes later they crossed the threshold of our back door. My aunt Betsy marched into the house demanding, “Where is she? Where’s Mare?” She found me leaning against the kitchen counter. Betsy pulled me close and whispered the most inappropriate and off-color statement in my ear. I erupted in surprised hysterics. For the first time since my mom passed, I let go of a belly laugh, and I let go of clenched sobs on Betsy’s shoulder.

Ask any kid and they’ll tell you that inappropriate laughter is the best. Getting the giggles when you’re supposed to be quiet, or good, or polite is more contagious than a summer cold. Or how about when someone says the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time, and another someone starts snorting? Those are the moments that will unite any group of strangers.

Laughter is the call for emotional presence – for filling up with feelings of euphoria and of overwhelming fear. Laughing when I’m angry (because I’m really feeling sad) helps me come up for air, and eventually moves me into the solution. I said eventually. J Laughter is validation of my victory and my injury; permission to celebrate and to bleed; and the next step toward a dream and a revelation.

Sure it’s all hard and some days are just so unbelievably sucky that I'm just sure the suck can’t get any worse – like when my mom died. Even then, I craved the bridge between the suck and the hope. I needed that orchestra of laughter that I share with my family and friends: deafening howls, snorts, giggles, guffaws, hiccups, and honks. That is where I want to live. Where I want to rest my head. Where I want to feel it all.