Mumbling Madly

Every election season my sister-in-law becomes part of the grey…undecided, mostly, with the propensity to go with what feels comfortable: voting Republican. This preference is largely prompted due to family upbringing, religious values, and a healthy distrust of the government. However, she is pro-choice, pro-socialized healthcare, understands the need to have social services, and is well educated. She is a valuable part of shaping my political sanity–for every asinine Republican extremist there is the reminder that many of them represent the practical, rational, thoughts and feelings of my sister-in-law. I can count on her to be reflective, concise, and reasonable with my political questions. I can’t, however, beg her to vote for Obama–I’ve thought about it–because she has a point: he’s inexperienced, young, lacks the foreign policy experience of McCain, and while, I wholeheartedly disagree, she finds him difficult to listen to vocally. Can’t negate that as much as I want to…she’s family after all. It’s very easy to lump all Republicans in a shameless manner, it’s quite a different experience having one sit down at the dinner table. Besides, she has some really great quotes, today one of them being, “Welfare should be limited…instead of giving people free food we should be handing everyone free condoms instead.”

The woes of winter quickly chase me inside…to rest and stare at the rain chilling down the streets and sidewalks. I teach and teach and I feel slightly sick. A scratchy throat brought on initially by the second hand vapors of a thousand cigarettes smoked by the Europeans has now morphed into a threatening cold. We have no heat in our home, the temperature inside matching the outside in all its chilly glory.

I was recruited to perform with a European performance art company for a short weekend run at On the Boards. Reviews of the show can be found here and here, but the summation of the performance is this: Pop culture fanned with the fire of lights, sound, nudity and European extravagance. Ten local dancers were needed for a night club scene and for a brief energetic piece at the end; I knew this was an opportunity for me to get to know other dancers and acquaint myself with the only theater in town that produces contemporary dance on a regular basis. (Backstage pictures can be found on my flickr page).

Dubbed “Team Seattle,” before we even met the Europeans, we rehearsed the piece via video and a local choreographer for two consecutive Mondays. Despite the simplicity of the choreography, there was a lot of high kicking. For anyone who has thrust their leg high into the air in an attempt to make it look like a sideways split, you know that shit hurts. You also might know that it throws off your balance and unless you have years of cheerleading under your belt, perky dancing can be hard to master. I say this, not necessarily as an excuse, but to convey how complicated the process became. After being shepherded by Amy, we were turned over to the Europeans. It was then that they informed us our turns weren’t sharp enough, our clothes were all wrong, and the big smiles plastered on our faces were too small. During the final dress rehearsal, they put us on a huge, white, stage and drilled us. After each set they would look us over, critique, and then subsequently move us to new positions on the stage. My response to this pressure was to revert back to some sort of adolescent stage: I became awkward, gamely, and found myself struggling to ‘keep up’ despite the previous ease I’d had in the choreography. I was moved twice–ending up in the dark, upstage right, corner of the stage next to the board op. This did little for my self-esteem. (Side note to Kimberly: Remember when we were both moved to the back so many years ago during VSA? This experience was similar). That night I struggled with an unreasonable amount of devastation: they put me in the back! I must not be a dancer after all…

Luckily, this inadequate feeling was dismissed once the show began its run. The unity of Team Seattle outweighed any inadequacies I might have felt–we had all received heavy critiques during dress rehearsal. Despite our respective dance levels, the small group of ten became tightly bound. Before the audience was allowed in, we were sequestered away behind a fantastic light box, hidden until the big night club scene. With no where to go, the ten of us hunkered down as if we were at a slumber party. The Europeans came and went, changing their clothes in a hurry as we squished to make room and tried not to oggle.

All of us were a little thrown by the nudity…not just by the nakedness itself but by the sheer confidence and beauty the women possessed. I don’t have to remind you that European women are known for their stellar good looks and grace. These women were no exception: leggy, smooth, with the perkiest breasts in the room. (DAMN IT). During the night club scene we danced furtively on a platform that contained multi-colored lights shooting out in every direction. We were creating ambiance, a scene, and yet I found myself dodging the Europeans every time they tried to bump and grind with me–shyness perhaps? After the night club scene, a group of us would huddle around the viewing window in the green room, murmuring to each other: “Here comes the locker room scene,” “Wow, I can’t believe she takes it all off,” “I feel so short and stubby,” “Look at the guy sitting in the front row–he’s grabbing his ears like a bomb might go off,”

Despite earlier intimidation, the European cast was incredibly kind. I could not get over their amazing interpretation of the English language (’shit’ becomes ’sheet,’ ’so’ becomes ’sew,’ etc.). Rehearsals were directed in a mixture of English, French, and occasionally, German. Their clothes were markedly different: the women wore long and loose fabrics with pieces that they could wind around their necks like a scarf, they all wore colored sneakers, and dammit, they made me want to look at buying tapered jeans again. The guy in charge of herding us around wore low rise, flared, jeans and really great ‘American’ t-shirts (“Gas, Grass, or Ass” was my favorite). He spoke frankly with us about the piece, shouted encouragement from the sidelines, and complimented my shoe choice, “Thank you for wearing heels, all the others are so conservative; don’t they know heels make the legs so sexy?”

Gradually, the Seattle team of dancers nestled into this unique European show by feeling a little freer about our own bodies, strolling around in various stages of undress backstage, and making fun of our gravity plagued boobs. I found myself occasionally slipping into some sort of hokey European accent–the lilting sounds of foreign-tinged English infectious and enjoyable. Despite earlier clothing criticism toward my cast mates (‘too many jeans and not enough skin’) the Europeans loved my sparkly stretch pants and refused to consider any other costume choices. By the end of the run we were on ‘kiss on both cheeks’ terms with everyone. When the cute German bass player of the group greeted me this way I blushed and actually said ‘thank you,’ which resulted in mild surprise from him…and inward cringing from me (duh, why would I thank him? That’s like thanking someone after they say ‘hello.’) It was everything I could do not to throw myself against their touring trunks and beg to be taken back to Europe with them. “How do we compare with other cities?” We asked, like a possessive lover over our new foreign friends. “Well, in Spain they were very, sexy, like overly sexy…in Austria they were fun, New York much like you with enthusiasm and good dancers, but Paris…it was very bad in Paris, no one knew how to dance.”

Last night several us stood outside the theater and, while inhaling what felt like an entire pack of second hand smoke, I asked one of the women what it was like to get naked every night in front of an audience. “Don’t you worry about some creepy guy watching you?” She was pointed in her response, “No, I never see the creepy guy…instead I enjoy being admired and the object of desire…it’s really nice.” She went on to say that during a Q and A in Austria, a group of lesbians accused them of being exploited onstage. “I said to them, ‘you act as if I can’t think for myself, as if I have no idea what I am doing up here…you discredit all of us and quite honestly: I enjoy it. I enjoy being the object of desire.’”

When I had initially seen the show during dress rehearsal, I found it confusing, full of style and bright lights. (Coming from a Fringe Theater background I am used to shows being self-contained with little to no technical glitz). I was distracted, bewildered, by the nudity, blinded by the subtext of social commentary and unwillingly to really listen. (Besides, is there really such a thing as cynical nudity or was it all just gratuitious?) The show grew on me each time I watched from the sidelines, overheard the dialogue from backstage, or came in contact with the cast. It took multiple viewings to really like the show. And, while this might sound silly, it was so “European” in that wonderful, unusual, big-world sort of way that I haven’t felt since my trip to Paris. Here we are on this big fat world, experiencing similar woes, pains, and emotions. We operate under duress, politics and culture weighing heavily on our minds, searching for understanding. How refreshing to be near people so very different and yet similar in their need to produce big fat art in all its naked glory.

How you’re fed as a child shapes the way you approach food for the rest of your life. As a kid I may have thought I was horribly deprived being served fresh vegetables from the garden, pasta from scratch, and only two oreos a day. In my mind, food that came in packages was much more exotic–and delicious. But as an adult, old eating habits die hard and I am pleased to say that my folks provided a very nice food foundation for me to eat upon. Here are a few foods I discovered ‘late’ in life:

Sour cream. My mother disliked white sour food (i.e. yogurt and blue cheese) and my father’s healthy proclivities kept him from indulging. Both my brother and I discovered how delicious sour cream can be on Mexican food and wondered why we were so late in discovering it.

White bread…everything we had was whole wheat for many years–right down to the wheat germ my father sprinkled on his yogurt. This is an old habit that’s died hard: my love for gummy white bread conflicts with the nagging knowledge that wheat bread is much better for me. While I try and stick to whole wheat bread, I occasionally treat myself to white (opting for potato of fortified bread).

Garlic. This was something we fished out of our pasta and put aside–similar to ginger in stir fries. My freshman year of college a friend treated me to a slice of pizza at pagliacci’s covered with cloves of garlic. I was shocked, confused, and fascinated. It was obvious the garlic wasn’t a garnish or a spice…it was actually part of the pizza! I devoured loads of garlic until, sadly, I married someone who had the same aversion to garlic as my family. Eating it in large quantities resulting in bad breath is highly discouraged in my household.

Tortillas. Currently a staple of my kitchen, I use them regularly. When I was 14 I went to a friend’s house and was served ‘make-your-own-tacos’ for dinner. I was so thrilled with this concept that I convinced my Mom to buy tortillas, fry up some hamburger, and cut up iceburg lettuce for our own taco bar. We only did this once,but as the years wore on I have returned to tortillas time and time again.

Jalepenos and other hot peppers. A year of working at a Mexican restaurant strengthened my pallet and my tolerance level to spicy hot.

Food I discovered as an adult and then discarded: Kraft Mac and Cheese, pre-made frosting, sheet cake from Safeway, and all the other little goodies that tempt me from the center aisle. These packaged foods once seemed like delicacies to me…only to be shoved aside for their non-pre-packaged counterparts. I’m not saying I’m immune to their charms–sometimes a Hostess ding-dong is exactly what you need. I also know that convenience, whether it be adding water and mixing to a pre-made sandwich is one of the wonders of our country. But from kool-whip to microwave cakes I’ve dabbled with each one of them and always end up back to the basics. After all: just buying whipping cream in a carton and pulling out the beaters is worth the extra step.

Downstairs my husband is making pancakes…I’m slowly prodding him into the kitchen a little more these days. Last night I was in two shows that somehow ended up taking a lot of physical energy to pull off. In the 7:00 show there were few cast members so I ended up jogging out onstage frequently, trying to keep the energy high, balancing a tiny audience.

The 8:30 show was Disaster! and involved a lot of improvised special effects. I found myself jogging for what felt like hours up a ’spiral staircase’ to the 15th floor (that’s a lot of running up fake stairs). When the World’s Largest Covered Wagon (a suggestion the cast loved and was given by Josh from the audience) crashed I flailed all over the stage, crashing into the back wall repeatedly in an attempt at some really horrible Titanic-esque humor. I did a lot of screaming, shouting, and repeated, “So many LIIIIVVVVES!” after each on-stage death. I clasped many a cast member’s head to my bosom in an attempt at over exaggerated comforting. I pretended to pull pieces of spiral staircase out of a cast member’s body with my teeth. Several times I pretended to be the actual embodiment of the Covered Wagon, chugging along to various doom. When all else failed I lapsed into being a really Bad 70’s B Movie Actor, straight of Poseidon Adventure: I gnashed my teeth, looked off into the distance, sobbed uncontrollably for my Oscar moment, enunciated too much, and generally tried to emulate William Shatner.

The result was a pretty decent Disaster! performance. After both shows I picked myself up off the floor and saw a friend’s band play in the stiflingly hot Rendezvous theater. Someone ordered tons of carbs and I found myself STARVING; I stuffed chicken strips, mac and cheese, and fries into my mouth in a rotating circle. I found myself sucking my gin and tonic down like a thirsty athlete from a water bottle. Then the airless room the band played in lulled me into some sort of post-performance stupor. I was incoherent by 11:30pm, a babbling sleepy mess…

I drove all over industrial south Seattle just to locate the City Light building. If you show up and prove you have an account with them (i.e. you pay the bills to keep your house lit) they will bestow upon you 3 fluorescent light bulbs and a water-saving shower head. Those bulbs are not cheap, so I’ll take any freebies I can get…and the shower head is for my parents.

Felt unsettled about a lot of things over the weekend. I was also bone-wrenchingly tired, having stayed up ‘late’ to perform two nights in a row. With the desire to improve my sense of well-being I rooted around our cupboards. I’ve been shopping less, trying to make things stretch a little further.

Then I glanced outside and saw plums hanging from our neighbor’s tree. These fruit trees rest on our property line and the plums dangle towards the grass with dark purple promise. Many of the plums have fallen to the floor and lay rotting and nibbled on. But a handful of plums still hang across our fence and down toward my vegetable garden. I picked them.

I looked up ‘plums’ in my cookbook and came up with a recipe for plum cobbler. I peeled the plums and quartered them–my hands a sticky golden mess. I mixed the fruit with cornstarch and sugar. I baked them with homemade biscuit dough plopped on top. I didn’t add enough sugar; the plum cobbler came out tart but passable. I relished in the joy of making a dessert out of something I found in my own backyard…

This week I will be performing in the on-going improv show: Disaster! You can watch me participate in an improvised Disaster movie on Friday at 8:30am at the theater where I spend most of my time. Below is the promotional trailer for Disaster! (It also features a large number of improvisers from Japan who were in town during the filming):