Mumbling Madly

I had been feeling generally pretty ‘bah humbug’ about Halloween lately having already agreed to assemble a Freudian Slip costume and schlep over to the Market on Friday and perform all night long (husband and sister in tow). Then I went on a walk around a certain West Seattle neighborhood with the two kids I take care of to look at the Halloween decorations. The little boy was on foot, wearing a large black faux fireman’s jacket and huge plastic sword in one hand and a strange piece of plastic that he’d designated as a back up sword in the other hand. The baby sat in an over-sized plastic car with a gigantic handle protruding from the trunk that served as a way for me to push her around. She was seat belted in, tiny hands on the wheel, and made car noises the whole time (which sounded more like growling but whose being picky?)

We admired the array of pumpkins–some carved, some natural–sitting on the wet front porches of various homes. Cobwebs layered the front doors. A large spider sat on a roof deflated. When we came within earshot of a huge, busy street, the little boy threw his body in front of the receptacle his sister was riding in, a desperate attempt to stop and prevent us from going further. I explained that the busy street was a good block away and we were going no where near it. He raised his swords in an X formation, as if their very nature (despite being plastic) would keep the threat of cars away. He remained fearful as we sauntered down a dead-in street, the baby’s plastic car stroller bouncing over the unpaved road. Admittedly, we did have to step aside as a very large truck rumbled by at a crawl. I very much wanted to avoid having to carry him while simultaneously pushing the baby all the way home. I stuck his sword in my belt loops and grabbed his free hand. We admired fall leaves, a plant covered with baby tomatoes, and I ignored his constant babble about being ‘nervous.’ There is only so much rationale you can provide right?

The fall colors were beautiful though, the pumpkins festive, and the Halloween decorations made sense now: they’re for the kids! How could I have looked past this?

My cell phone plan charges me a HUGE amount for each message received; since I rarely use my cell phone I have no interest in paying additional fees for unlimited texts. Between email, cell, and home phone there are plenty of ways to get ahold of me. I tried talking AT&T into turning my thousands of roll over minutes into text message credit but was denied. NO TEXTS FOR ME (Unless absolutely necessary).

Completed 5 improv shows in 3 days. Today, I spent the day in a strange daze, shivery, complacent, peaceful, tired. Josh made coffee and raspberry pancakes for breakfast. I ate Trader Joe’s sandwich cookies for lunch. The sun shone.

Last night’s audience was entirely, completely, cosmically, opposite of the friday night audience of mean debauchery. They loved us. They sang, they called out, they roared. At the end of Theatersports several people rose to their feet and cheered during the first standing ovation I’ve ever seen for an improv show. After the performance I received more high fives in 10 minutes then I’ve probably ever received in my life (and that includes 2 years of indoor soccer as a kid). One teenager gave me a high five while holding a hand warmer. People streamed out of the theater beaming as if their lives had been changed. Multiple people shook my hand, ‘congratulations, what a great show, you’re amazing.” My head was going to explode! A foreign kid with a cleft lip and a thick accent hovered around me, “I was secretly rooting for you,” he revealed. “It might have to do with the fact that we share the first three letters in our first name.” I tried guessing his name, “Mark? Marcus?” Shyly he revealed, “Mario.” I was surprised since he didn’t look Italian at all but congratulated him on his cool name. “You were in the first improv show I ever saw,” he said, eyes glowing. I realized I had better detach myself or risk breaking his heart. “Well, that’s great,” I said genuinely. “I’ll see you at the next show.” He smiled after me, “I’ll hold you to that!” I felt like a celebrity….at least in Mario’s world.

Last night, when the MC asked for an example suggestion (“can I get a room in the house?”), a fellow raised his hand and shouted, “My room!” The MC applauded, “Yes, yes, that would be a correct suggestion to a room in the house…uh, ma’am?” The young woman next to him was waving her hand frantically. When the MC called on her she announced, “My room is called the fuck me room.” There was a startled gasp amongst the crowd and even a few of us lesser experienced improvisers (like myself) backstage. The audience ruffled and then came back, but the group in the corner became raunchier then ever. I’ve endured drunken audiences before but never a drunken, dirty, slightly angry audience. During intermission the bartender reported that they lined up shots of jager and then polished it off with $9 absinthe all around. They called out to us onstage (“sex toy party!” Which we accepted just to humor them, presenting a fairly chaste party). When asked for a suggestion of ’something you try to squeeze into a moment every day,” (a very creative question, I thought), one of the guys yelled, “Beating off!”

All of this aside my team members consisted of two long time female cast members, ladies who I respect endlessly for their ability to command, wrangle, and handle the stage. I presented myself with a (sometimes forced) confidence the entire time, certain that I could hold my own if I just pushed myself. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, despite the occasional suggestion from the back.

Because I constantly have guilt for not serving the needy, for not teaching in my own low-income neighborhood, and for usually finding myself in the company of affluent kids I have turned karma a few steps around. I’ve done this by recently taking a job as a Dance Specialist at a school for kids ‘on the spectrum’ of autism. “Oh, not all of them are autistic,” the director dismissed, certain that their varying degrees of disability equaled out to one complete, slightly below average, child. I have had a few high functioning autistic children in my various classes over the years. There was the high-profile kid who had suspicious Asperger like qualities in my kindergarten class. There was the little boy who stayed in Storybook Acting for a year, happy as a lark and then crying at random intervals–specifically when we sang “Twinkle, twinkle.” Currently, I have a little girl whose obsessive compulsive nature, unwillingness to be called anything but “Miss. Butterfly,” and habit of walking into doors due to out-of-body awareness hints at some sort of placement on the fancily titled “spectrum.” We all know the stats: 1 in 150 births, 1 to 1.5 million Americans; Autism is the fastest-growing developmental disability with a 10 – 17 % annual growth. It is mysterious, devastating, and most prevalent in boys. Because of its growth, the media has finally dragged autism out of hiding. Why just this week you can see Jenny McCarthy crowing about how she ‘cured’ her son’s autism on the cover of People, (using almost entirely diet and therapy according to her book).

On my first day it became clear that, while a few children seemed fairly high functioning, the large majority of the children in the younger grades were not. I was to spend a half hour with seven children (ages 6-9), four teacher’s aids, and myself. One boy was wearing a full body unitard under his clothes. This was because he regularly pulls his pants down. One of the only girls in the class, beautiful, vacant, was in a dress and diapers. One narrowly peered through squinted eyes, suspicious and halting. One, heart-breakingly shy, knew my name already from the board (my welcome letter tacked up next to the school calender and the teacher bios). He stared at me, almost piercing my soul, until furtively looking away and retreating…where? I was unsure? We danced and sang, the kids fighting their handlers at every turn, emotions turned on high. I dodged elbows, shouted praise over the ruckus, and found myself being clung to by the boy with squinty eyes before he immediately endowed me as some sort of jungle gym.

The fifth grade class, all four of them, were much more comprehending. Ages 10-11, they were fantastic in the gawky way they had claimed themselves. One of them, tall with long limbs that he introduced himself to me with a rapping rhyme. Another boy had no sense of personal space and I found him constantly standing right in front of me eagerly staring up at my face. I was surprised at how easy going the only girl of the group was, until I saw her eyes vacantly search the floor. “Many of them have no short term memory,” the director informed me. “They’ll forget your name five minutes after you tell them.” The fifth graders persevered, although the cramped confines of the tiny classroom left us struggling for space.

These kids are endearing simply because they have abandoned social norms, left the standard ideas we have for children about who they are and what they should be, and instead, have created their own struggling, halting, unique personalities. OK, so that’s how I feel today. Two weeks ago, when I started I felt in over my head.

Went to Utah to attend the opera with family. Madame Butterfly was dedicated to my grandpa, a founding Utah Opera board member since it began in the 70’s. It was a whirlwind trip on the heels of a hectic week of rehearsals, scheduling, dodging and ducking. I flew into SLC on Friday night and left Sunday morning. My grandpa’s house remains largely the same since my aunt continues to reside there. It’s comforting to see the old pictures and nick knacks still standing, yet, strangely disconcerting to have my grandpa know longer around…no longer living there. While searching in the cupboards my uncle found an ancient can of apricots:

We also found a historic box of starch. This was back when folks used to starch their clothes. My uncle and I spent a while trying to research the date of the box. It might stretch as far back as the turn of the century but our internet research turned up inconclusive:

The opera was beautiful; I felt horribly under-dressed as we dined at a fancy benefit dinner prior to the show. Men were wearing tuxes and women sported long gowns. I can’t believe I wore my red Dansko clogs to the opera. However, the atmosphere was elegant and festive. Relatives I used to never know but have recently become well acquainted with in the last six month were there (i.e. my great uncle, avid collector of phonographs). We sat at a special table in honor of my grandpa and sat through speeches and pleasantries.

Madame Butterfly is a feminist nightmare. Written at the beginning of the century by the legendary Puccini, the whole opera is one big heartbreak waiting to happen. Chauvinist pig, Captain Pinkerton shows up in the orient, marries a former concubine and then splits. She waits for him dutifully for three years, gives birth to his son, and sing aria after aria about how lucky she is to have him. Pinkerton finally shows up with a new, white, American, replacement bride and let’s everyone know he’s just swinging by to pick up his kid. Madame Butterfly discovers the new wife, realizes her kid is as good as gone, and kills herself. Dang.

This is my brother and I outside the theater:

Not having a regular 9 to 5 job is nice…really it is. Instead, I work in sections of the day, outputting enormous energy to teach and then scaling back only to recharge a few hours later for a new class. Right now I teach at 3 studios, 2 schools, nanny, take dance classes, rehearse, and perform regularly in the evening. I also run the office of one studio. During the week my brain becomes a disjointed calender. Many times my day begins at 10am and travels with upward speed to 10pm. There are chunks, breaks, pieces of freedom mixed with the usual needs: where to eat? (In my car), when to drive? (avoid the highways before 11am and after 2pm), do I go home or do I stay in the city? Some days (like today) I find myself alone in one particular studio for 3 solid hours. Sometimes I take advantage of the soft little floor and perform 30 minutes of yoga. Other times I bring a book and lay out on the same floor and read–keeping a close eye trained on the clock. Occasionally, I can actually lie down and sleep; the studio turns into a strange, urban, rest pod. If I’m lucky my sister is off from work and I saunter down to her studio and sip tea or go out for Thai food. I am lucky. My days are never the same, never predictable, save for a few time slots. However, it makes gearing up for a day or a week daunting, no matter what my health…or the weather. Hello, fall…

The little KeyBank down the street was robbed. The men’s locker room during a football game at the high school a few blocks away was robbed. (Update: the day I wrote this post the cash box was stolen at the salon I visited for a haircut). With times this tight, every little bit counts. When folks feel the squeeze, some go all Oprah and start cutting their coupons…others, plain and simple, steal.

Sure, there are those with a propensity to swindle regardless of economic strain. I’m sure I could point out that I live in the least wealthiest part of town, where already stressed budgets and tight money belts cause folks to feel a constant ache in their financial bellies. Add the overall threatening tone of our country–no WORLD–affairs and you could see why someone might feel like knocking off a bank for a few marked bills. Is this is why all sorts of terrible neighborhood news keep appearing? Instead of drawing our friends and families closer as a way to embrace non-financial joy, are the dark sides of certain individuals growing darker? This has to be a time for community, a time for greater communication and a constant excuse to get social. Gone are the days when we could spend freely on electronics that isolated us even further from our tangible community, when we bought fancy cars on credit that we could sit silently idle on the freeway in, and when cheap airfare allowed us constant escape from our neighborhoods.

Times like last night: When we found escape with a simple cup of tea flavored with real half and half and a few late night friends.

I went to Safeway to buy dental floss. The pink paper frame around the credit card machine at the counter announced that it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. “Would you like to donate a dollar?” the checker asked me. “Sure!” I said, feeling very purposeful. I contributed my dollar and the checker continued ringing me up. “Uh, can I have the little pink card with the donation name on it?” I asked carefully. “Oh, of course!” the checker apologized. The card read, “Donated in Honor of __________” I took the card and carefully wrote Brynn’s full name. Then I blabbed to the checker about Brynn’s Stage 8 breast cancer at age 28, how she’s in radiation now, how proud I am of her. “Bless her heart!” the checker said genuinely.

Hobbes returned a week later to the vet for a follow up appointment. When we entered the exam room, I opened up the cage. Hobbes refused to come out. I didn’t realize the delicate nature of examining ill-functioning anal glands. Hobbes needed an anal exam, read: a lubed finger up her butt. Under the vet’s request I left the room again this time, Hobbes yowling in protest. “She peed,” the vet said when I returned. “Her glands feel fine, no relapse.” Hobbes glared at me from inside her cage. We will return in 2 weeks.

On Sunday night Josh and I went to a rather prominent modern dance show. I won’t give away too many details but the artistic director is African American, the company has elevated status in Seattle (above the usual fray of 10 Tiny Dances and eclectic Cap Hill ensembles), and I typically take a ballet class on Friday morning’s with the company. The first piece was unarguably the most enjoyable: hip-hop infused with a liberal use of hoodies, beats, and well timed facial expressions. There was a really beautiful dancer in this piece who was both charismatic and wonderful. The other two pieces were, quite simply weird. I borrow Josh’s assessment: “So many of the pieces were based on just being weird…I mean the dancers were good, but the movement was so strange I was distracted. Why is all the merit placed on just being really odd?” In addition to being weird, the piece by the artistic director looked painful. The dancers were slapping their limbs inadvertently all over the mylar floor, their bodies taped up in obvious attempt to hide and prevent bruising. They sweated and purposely huffed and puffed, the panting obviously included as part of the choreography. They smacked their limbs around and sounded like they were all having asthma attacks. I wasn’t into it.

On the rainy drive home, Josh and I agreed that the one dancer in the first piece was really hot. Then my husband said something marvelous, “You know, I think she looks kind of like you! This happens to me all the time…I’ll see some girl with dark hair and think, ‘wow, she’s really attractive…” and then I realize: ‘Oh, she looks just like my wife.’”

Score.

Performed like a madman last night at the improv with my ass (again) being a starring role. Whether I was accidentally shoving it in another improviser’s face or pantomiming putting on a pair of tight jeans, it’s not a 10:30 show unless I’m exploiting myself in some small way. Late night shows always buzz with an excited drunken energy and improvisers are required to meet that energy with matched enthusiasm. Because I was nervous I resorted to a state of physical mania, a leaping, prancing, mincing performance machine. One of the judges said it was one of the most visually interesting shows he had seen, filled with physicality, movement, and shapes. Narratively, the show suffered. A scene was honked on my team because the Entertainment judge simply didn’t like it (ouch). I ran out onstage completely unprepared and scared only once with nothing in my head…nothing. “Okaaay,” I blinked at the crowd. Politics fresh on all our minds I blurted out, “Let’s do something with a world view.”

I’m so unfamiliar with theater sports sometimes I feel like a big dumb elephant. Luckily, the teams were well matched but my group was clearly the underdog from the start–which led to our typical loss. However, the narrative ballet was a lot of fun using a hilarious tale of a first date: Fellows meets a girl at a party, asks her out, and finds out during the date that she is engaged. Humorously this was after they went to the mall and she tried on jeans, ate Thai food–that he paid for, and pretty much toted him around as merely a ‘friend.’ As you can imagine, this made a very good ballet. (And somehow, I managed to bust out my patented break dance move: The Triangle).

From the narrative ballet to the interpretive dancing, I quickly sweated through my Costco bought peasant top. I wished I had worn a t-shirt and spent most of my time backstage fanning myself while wearing my shirt around my neck. Backstage, I guzzled water from a random mug left at the theater that read: “I Hate My Job.”

Unlike long form improv and the fuzzy family improv shows at 7:00, theater sports continues to be the most challenging for me. With the incredibly highs come the devastating lows. It is much more rewarding to come out, regardless of failure and loss, at the end of a late night show. “You all have big balls,” a beautiful girl told us after the show. “Guts and big balls.”