Mumbling Madly

Yesterday a semi lost control and dumped a load of warm tar all over northbound I-5. No one was hurt. However, the media is having a great time throwing around terms like “sticky situation.”
I’ve learned of a mysterious conglomerate of dance, pilates, yoga, and fitness called Nia. On the website I am encouraged to “Get Fit! Get Lose” but I can’t find a clear definition of what it is. This is all just so typical of everything here… (and I’m not going to define that).
I’m trying to talk my brother into staying with me this weekend while Josh attends a wedding in Canada. I even bribed him with the now infamous cupcake store. His 25th birthday is this Monday, how can he resist the lure of The Cupcake?
Yesterday, I spent three hours writing thank you notes to customers: “Just a little note to let you know how much we appreciate your business. As a local retailer we thrive off customer support. Please let us know how we can further assist you in your dancewear needs.” It was a long, tedious, task but it kept me busy. I am slowly realizing the inevitable: Despite what the owner claims, I am not able to make real changes at this dance store. I was naively hoping that by diplomatically sharing what had been successful in my past store might demonstrate real success. It will be a never ending battle with this organization, hence, I need to find a way to leave.
It is taking a full hour to get home in the afternoon from Fremont. This will wear me down, I can feel it. Reading a book on the bus is difficult, what with all the stopping and starting. We’re packed into these little buses pretty tightly, and everyone is bantering for a seat. It’s not longer novel or fun. Depression is setting in.

The kids? Well, the young, hip, urbanites are still beatboxing on the bus–but this time they were good! The #27 is an interesting bus. Unlike the creepy #3 that strolls past Harborview Medical Center (read: CRAZY PEOPLE) and all the assorted jails, the #27 takes you deep into the colorful, gentrified corners of the Central district. You’ll see a burnt down home settled next to a new set of urban condos. A hip coffee place next to a struggling car repair shop housed in someone’s side yard. The people on the bus are less frightening, more real, and in some cases I truly feel like I am peeking into an entirely different cultural. (OK, so this probably sounds like Little White Girl Enters the Big Wide Ghetto, but I’m trying to be genuine here).
A group of young, black, teenagers sat in the back of the #27 last Friday. One of them played the mouth trumpet, the other repeated the traditional “boom-ch-boompity-chee,” one of them made realistic turntable sounds, and the last spouted off rhymes. It was such an 8 Mile moment. Instead of being annoyed I was actually really impressed with how good they were. So good in fact, the bus driver carelessly said into his radio, “Hey, if you have a radio on back there, turn it off.” Which was actually a compliment! The boys toned it down briefly, until the leader began to sprinkle his rappin with colorful words. The bus driver came back on the radio with: “Watch your language, we’re a Family Bus.” It was all very heartening; especially when I got off the bus and the kids let me go first, like, “No, no after you.”
Despite having to work on Saturday for a few hours, this weekend was awesome. I met Johnny and Kris’ posse, ate cupcakes, ,
Cooked several good dinners, drank a lot of wine and cocktails, and genuinely enjoyed myself. I’ve been attending classes at the oldest Improv School in the states, which will remain unnamed for now. Instead of just hopping up onstage and playing games we’re actually studying the fine art of improvisational comedy through theory, example, and personal exploration. That might sound pretty heavy, but I’ve been out of school for a while, and I love it. Wednesday they have an open 3 hour forum, where you go crazy with the improv games. All the heavy theory and analysis can be applied. All in all, it’s been a good way to get back into the community.

Ever wonder why there were so many Jennifers and Sarahs in your class growing up? Maybe because Jennifer was the #1 girl’s name in the 1970’s. Or how come there aren’t any kids named George anymore? It was #4 in 1900. My brother clued me into this super cool site: The Baby Name Wizard. I learned that my own name peeked in the 1990’s before rapidly declining down into the new millenium. Before the 1940’s my name didn’t even make a dent in the map!

I’ve decided that everyone in Seattle is simply psychotic. I feel this way largely because everyone I’ve interviewed with recently has been running some weird, undefined, agenda that I can’t tap into. Today I sat down with a very intense former actor who is now the director of a children’s theater. I think it’s important to note that he is a former actor who originated in New Jersey, suffered hard times, and came out of it a shining star…only to fall from grace and find new meaning in his life by teaching others. Now he’s running a children’s theater based on end-results based performances, riding the children hard, and not being too cute…because that sucks when people think kid’s theater is cute. I’m not really sure what happened, I just know that when he left for a moment my eyes bugged out because I couldn’t believe what I was enduring. I was overwhelmed by him immediately. I don’t like that in an interview, feeling like I’m being blown out of the water before I even know the h2o content. I also find true born and bred east coasters to be intense, blatant, and over-bearing. Everything is extreme, from their take on religion to the politics of the theater. This guy kept jumping up and acting things out during the interview. He kept talking about the definition of ‘funny’ and what is ‘ ‘funny’ and what is not…how part of his determining whether or not I got the job was if he thought I could, or knew, how to be funny. I said, “Of course I’m funny!” and actually wrapped my knuckles on the table. Than he said, “Ha ha, tell me a funny story.” Of course my mind went blank. Luckily I knew enough to just keep this guy going on about himself, (because all actors love talking about themselves), and I was spared from telling a humorous story.
This guy liked my last name, the fact that I was female, and the fact that I attempted to catch up with him while he talked 90 mph. I riffed with him a little bit, but I still feel a little disturbed, and a little put off. While waiting for the interview, I overheard him talking about how he struggled through the hardships of New Jersey and got out of it “alive.” I dislike when people over sensationalize their lives…yeah, yeah, we all got problems.
Than he made a point during the interview to mention to me that he’s taken ballet classes AND he’s straight. OK, can we get past the whole “ballet means you’re automatically a gay man” stereotype? I endured this two weeks ago at Easter brunch with my extended family of in-laws. “I like watching women dance but men, ew, no way! The tights alone freak me out.” Let’s just say props to straight guys who are brave (?) enough to take a ballet class filled with absolutely beautiful women and leave it at that.
This is a day camp position here, people, not some gigantic thing. And yes, I’m passionate about children’s theater, and yes, I’m a seasoned teacher…but I’m not psychotic about it. And come on, isn’t it, really, just a little bit, about the money? Kids are a HOT commodity, they make good dough. Yes, I like teaching kids but I also like the $$ and I don’t want to be wallowing in leotards for the rest of my life.
It was a relief to leave the interview, even though afterward I awkwardly followed the director and a board member down the street because the Thai restaurant they were having lunch at was next to my bus stop. I waited in the soggy rain for ten minutes until I finally picked up a #28 (Note: this was the same bus that carried the crazy zither player several weeks ago). I sat next to a lady who refused to share space and opted to accommodate her large purse beside her instead of holding it on her lap like a decent bus riding citizen. (C’mon people, we all have to squeeze sometimes, move your G.D. purse out of my way so I can sit my ass down!)
I made a detour to Wellsfargo up on 4th and Seneca, (this was carefully mapped out, btw, on a piece of paper, complete with bus times, routes, and three downtown bank locations), only to make a horrible discovery: My first paycheck from The Beautiful Dance Store was sitting at home in my jean jacket. What a rotten feeling. So I hurled myself back out into the wind and rain only to see the #3 chug past me. So I made a choice: I ran. I became one of those psycho, chasing-down-the-bus-in-impractical-shoes-type people. I made this choice because I was pissed, hungry, and had to pee. Sure, I could have sat around in a Starbucks or a Torrefazione and drank coffee while reflecting my stressful interview. But you know how it is: I just wanted to get home. There’s only so much roughing it I can do before I start feeling wet, tired, and nostalgic for the days when I drove a car. (And coffee shops inevitably cost money, even though this usually allows you to use their restroom).
We met up with Johnny Peel later in the evening, who interestingly enough, endured his own hellish interview this past week. Of course it was on a much grander scale, because he actually flew out from Columbus, Ohio and spent a full day in the hideous grip of a local community college. I took him to Cafe Verita and enticed him with their rows of tantalizing cupcakes. We went to St. Clouds (which is slowly becoming my local watering hole) and I had a Pomegranate Manhattan–which is just as sweet and decadent as it sounds–while Johnny and Josh drank Fat Tire. The best part of the day was the inexpensive tab, hallelujah! We’ve finally found a good place to get cheap drinks in this overpriced town.

Last night I assisted my friend Sam with auditions for a local production of Camelot. Now, I know very little about musical theater. I just know that it pays well in an industry that usually pays very little. Typically, at any given audition, you’ll find people that can sing well, dance remarkably, and act marvelously…but rarely all three at once. Hence, one must weed out those who have two left feet but sing like a lark. Roles are doled out depending on the actor’s strengths. I have not delved into musical theater because I can’t sing…so even though I can presumably dance and act I would never be cast as a lead. (So why bother, really?) Sam hired me to learn a piece of choreography and repeat it HUNDREDS of times, while rows of aspiring dancers stood behind me and repeated the moves. The idea was that if their minds were off the pressure of learning choreography it would be a fairer audition. I didn’t mind dancing the same counts over and over again, (although one set of 8 counts was galloping across the stage as if riding a horse), I had a lot of fun. In fact, despite the singing, I think I might actually be good at musical theater. Perhaps it’s my inner campy nature or my addiction to pointless schtick.
In other news I finally buckled down and ordered a monthly bus pass. The anxiety over change and quarters proved to be too stressful for me. Even now I am calucated how much is in the change jar. Single dollar bills become infinitly precious to me and I can’t even part with a single quarter.

The view from my bar stool at St. Clouds. I looked right into the kitchen and watched them make these huge decadent hot fudge sundaes the whole night.

So an impromptu bachelor party has left me date-less on a Saturday night. Apparently the company of wives is frowned upon when allowing a bachelor to celebrate his last days. So after a great early performance of new works at On The Boards I was dropped off and left at home trying to determine: What to do in a new corner of the city on a Saturday night? This is when I realized I don’t have very many friends. In F.C. it didn’t really matter, but there’s something about Seattle that makes you want to go out, let your hair down, and order plenty of drinky drinks…which I may do, we’ll see…
I have an interview with a children’s theater on Tuesday, and even though it is in Kirkland, I am excited. Oh how I must temper my high hopes that this might be the ticket out of my current job. Some new tidbits I’ve learned: Owner is currently fostering her step-son’s 6 month old daughter sired by meth addict girlfriend, (baby is also deaf). I learn that meth-addict, now ex-girlfriend, has been known to show up at the dance store and spout profanities. (I can’t wait for this to happen, at least it would add some excitement to a dull job).
Manager was wearing a tight, short, pink tee that read: “I have need a new boyfriend.”
Co-worker/best friend of manager ignored me last Wednesday so profusely we actually sat in silence.
Co-worker/17 Year Old Surrogate Daughter got into a car accident on the way to work. I was left to man the store by myself. My dear friend, Sam, joined me while I waited for the manager to arrive and take over.
I was warned about the pervy UPS Man; Apparently he is prone to hitting on anything with legs. “He even asked my friend out, and she was, like, only 15 at the time!” The manager informs me. Surprisingly, I find myself a little disappointed when the UPS Man pays me no mind.
I keep dodging my age, as if admitting that I’m a good six years older than the manager will somehow lengthen the distance we already have between us. I listen to this 21 yr old girl and I realize that she is really a 14 yr old kid trapped in a grown up world with very little direction. OK, so I am someone with a fairly stable relationship/family life; But as I grow older I find it hard to be patient with other’s who enjoy endless turmoil and chaos. A long time ago I left those kinds of friends…now I’m stuck with working with someone whose problems are so deep rooted and chaotic all I can think of is: Therapy…and a little wisdom that comes with time.

Today I went to register our Honda and receive WA plates, etc. It was something I had to do because the plates expired yesterday and the car is in my name. I went expecting to pay $30 bucks and I ended up forking over $306!! Apparently there is this Monorail Tax, and since my car is nice and new my tax was huge. I’m all for the monorail, I voted for it back in 1998, but OMIGOD! I was shocked. I thought I was going to be paying 30 bucks, and whoa…damn. I said, “Wait, this wasn’t on the website!” And now I know why: We should have registered the car in a different WA based city and the tax wouldn’t have been applied. I should have used my parent’s Vancouver address! Why, God why! Well, now I’m warning all y’all who plan on moving here, do not register your cars in Seattle…you will be severely burned. While waiting in line I also read an article about how if you buy a used car from an individual instead of a used car lot, they will tax you on the percentage the car is worth versus how much you actually paid for the vehicle. So if you paid $800 for a ‘88 Skylark, but the car’s value is really $4,000, hello, you’re gonna pay something like $450 for registration. I think this is to weed out the common occurrence of lowballing the actual amount of money that was exchanged. I know when I bought my first crappy car, we wrote on the title that I bought it for next to nothing so I could avoid a heavy tax. Now, the state has found a way to nix this behavior. I suppose the advantages are clean streets, well kept parks, and (one day) a monorail…but still, damn, I’m still smarting.
Taking the bus from work, to the U District for licensing, and than to my house took….2 and a half hours. That’s a lot of waiting around. I consoled myself by listening to NPR on my Walkman (that’s right, I play it ol’ skoo), until my batteries gave out. Than I was enchanted by a blind man sitting with his (unblind) four year old daughter. She was crawling all over the seat next to him, talking to him, telling him about her day. At one point she held his cane, which was folded up in her lap. He kept touching her face as a way to calm her down and I realized he had no other way to see how beautiful she was. It was a nice moment. They finally exited the bus, and all the passengers on my bus watched this blind man and his little girl wait at the crosswalk at a busy intersection. She was holding his hand, and when the pedestrian crosswalk lit up, she sprung from the sidewalk and pulled him forward. The whole bus watched, as if vicariously guiding them across the busy street and out of harms way.
Speaking of bus rides, some guy was BEAT BOXING on the bus the other day, that’s right, loud and clear: “Boom-chee, batta-boom, chee,” He was even making little squeaky squeak noises like he was mixing a couple of records on a turn table. This was not some guy quietly vibing his music with headphones, this was a confident fellow who wanted the whole bus to know how talented he was with his vocal rhythms. It was funny until it became annoying. I went down fantasy lane: What if I turned to him and said: “Sir, could you please stop that?” Or better yet, “Hey, shut-up, ok? Nobody wants to hear you.” What would he do? Kill me? Grow even louder to antagonize me? I amused myself with this until finally he got off the bus and we were all spared.