My niece Lilah, at nearly nine months, is the chillest baby I've ever met. She's the kind of baby where you'd think, "Well, we might as well have 17 more of these, because it's a piece o' cake." I mean no disrespect to my own child. She was a mighty cute baby, too, but man, she wasn't easy. Lilah is the kind of baby who not only never cries, she never even looks perturbed. If you meet her gaze, her big, blue eyes break open like a Christmas cracker with sparkly looks, and the added bonus of a great, gummy smile. If you throw a stuffed ball to her, she'll happily fling it back for as long as you can stand it, and reward your repetitive efforts with unabashed screeches of delight. If you put a plastic stacking cup on your head and "atchoo!" it off, she'll laugh until she gives herself the hiccups. Oh, Auntie Sam! You're not only hilarious, you're an insouciant wit!
So hanging with her over Thanksgiving did not suck. I enjoyed spooning orange slop into her tiny mouth and strapping her into her fish-covered high chair. My dad said "Must bring back memories." Um, no. The day I met Jarrah, she was eating filet mignon and Caesar salad, and she was too big for a high chair. So this is a first.
Another first was staying up in the OC for a couple days over the break, rather than spending three hours in traffic on Thursday morning and schlepping home the same night, nearly comatose with pie head. We bunked at a nearby Residence Inn (how I love them, with their roominess and friendly smiles) and joked that having Jarrah around helps us take advantage of all amenities. She marched me to the Exercise Room Thursday morning for a little pre-prandial sweat, and all our warnings did not dissuade her from leaping in the outdoor (!) pool in late November, and then staying in there over an hour (twice!) because "Mama!" she shrieked as I joined David on the chilly lounges, "I MADE A FRIEND!" Of course you did, darling. Of course you did.
Her friend, Grace, was a year older but similar in height, and also Asian, so their hair matched. They had an absolute blast, and Jarrah was sad to leave her at the end of our stay. We had a poolside chat with her dad, who explained that they'd be living at this Residence Inn for the next two months. They're from Honolulu, but Grace's mommy will be undergoing cancer treatment at UCLA for a long spell, and his work gave him a temporary transfer. Wow. Spending the holidays at the Residence Inn, far from family and loved ones, fighting for health. That was a good reminder to count my blessings this Thanksgiving, on tiny fingers and toes, and to keep right on going after that.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
And...Strike!
A sort of melancholy day, as the first day following the strike of a show always is. I had coffee with my friend Lisa, visiting from San Francisco, and asked her "You know that feeling after a show, where you might be sad, you might be relieved, you might be nostalgic, you might be in limbo, and you're not sure, but you know you're feeling SOMETHING kind of a lot?" Yeah, she knew.
To cheer myself up, I scheduled a massage in advance. A hot stone massage, yet. This is a place I go often, but I've never experienced their rocks before today. I wish I'd left them as a pleasant fantasy. I've had rocks before, but these did not suit me. There was a lot of slippery, oily, not-very-deep rubbing that ultimately left me with aching shoulders and a vague headache. And it's more expensive than the non-rock variety. Harumph.
Sitting outside at the Living Room on a surprisingly sunny and lovely November day (sorry, East Coasters) did help my mood, but then it was scrunched again by my own carelessness: I'd asked a friend to watch Jarrah between camp and ice skating but had forgotten to pack her scan-able skate card. When I arrived, Jarrah was forlornly watching her friend skate because the weirdly rigid skate staff refused to look for her in their computer without the card. I ask you, what is the point of being registered by a computer if you can't, then, look it up? By the time I sorted it out and got her skates on, it was time for her lesson and she burst into tears because she couldn't free skate. And I felt like a major heel. WWM (World's Worst Mom) Award of the day.
It's Thanksgiving week now, and I guess I'll get some sleep and start to recover from FOUR shows in less than 48 hours! To those of you who came out to support me and the cast--thank you from the bottom of my heart. As one of my cast mates put it, "without you, it's not a show."
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Things She Carried
"I'm sorry, Mommy."
"Well, I'm still a little mad! I told you I really had to do one thing this afternoon and I needed some quiet time to do it! [I'm Alumnae Secretary for my class at Smith College and the column was due today.] I made you a nice lunch. Even dessert. I let you watch "Fishhooks." But I still had you pounding on the door and screaming?!?"
Her eyes filled with tears. I thought maybe more remorse was on its way. Color me wrong.
"I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO ANYTHING YOU SAY ANYMORE! I'M MOVING OUT!"
Um, this was new. I turned around so she didn't see me smile. The front door slammed. I figured I'd give us both a few minutes to cool off.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch when the door opened very slowly. An arm appeared, then a leg. Then a very contrite little face.
"I decided to stay. I wanna be a family again."
"How come?"
"I got carried away."
Awwww. "Give me a hug."
"I figured I would go to Joy's, but that's too far. Then I thought of Nathan's, but it would mean crossing a lot of streets that I'm not allowed to cross by myself."
"But otherwise you woulda been outta here? If Joy's and Nathan's weren't so far and you could cross streets?"
"Right."
"Well, thanks. That makes me feel special."
"There was one other thing I needed."
"Shoes?"
"Love." Her eyes welled up again. "I needed love. And someone to tuck me in at night. And make me dinner. And care about me."
"That's good, 'cause Daddy and I want to do those things."
"I did bring my Halloween candy."
"You remembered your Halloween candy but no shoes?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm still a little mad! I told you I really had to do one thing this afternoon and I needed some quiet time to do it! [I'm Alumnae Secretary for my class at Smith College and the column was due today.] I made you a nice lunch. Even dessert. I let you watch "Fishhooks." But I still had you pounding on the door and screaming?!?"
Her eyes filled with tears. I thought maybe more remorse was on its way. Color me wrong.
"I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO ANYTHING YOU SAY ANYMORE! I'M MOVING OUT!"
Um, this was new. I turned around so she didn't see me smile. The front door slammed. I figured I'd give us both a few minutes to cool off.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch when the door opened very slowly. An arm appeared, then a leg. Then a very contrite little face.
"I decided to stay. I wanna be a family again."
"How come?"
"I got carried away."
Awwww. "Give me a hug."
"I figured I would go to Joy's, but that's too far. Then I thought of Nathan's, but it would mean crossing a lot of streets that I'm not allowed to cross by myself."
"But otherwise you woulda been outta here? If Joy's and Nathan's weren't so far and you could cross streets?"
"Right."
"Well, thanks. That makes me feel special."
"There was one other thing I needed."
"Shoes?"
"Love." Her eyes welled up again. "I needed love. And someone to tuck me in at night. And make me dinner. And care about me."
"That's good, 'cause Daddy and I want to do those things."
"I did bring my Halloween candy."
"You remembered your Halloween candy but no shoes?"
"What do you mean?"
Sunday, November 13, 2011
"Oh? Who Did That?"
Just got home from the theater after our first weekend of shows. Have a somewhat pea soup head. Not surprising after seven straight days and nights at the theater, plus two full-length rehearsals before that. Today the kids backstage had out their textbooks and their belabored notebook sheets covered with algebra equations, preparing to re-enter their real world on the morrow.
Opening weekend was fun! Friday kicked off with a champagne reception (and some seriously yummy meatballs) and Sunday David made a video of us. In between, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Well, it was never the worst of times, but we did have our visits from the Theater Gremlins, as I've been calling them. Just today I went out in the dark to move a table and fell headlong over a low wall concealing some lights. It sounded like a construction site, but I was strangely unwounded, except for my pride. I was also snatched in Act Two and entrusted with a desperate and essential mission: storm the stage in the next blackout, gallop up the rickety stairs to the "bedroom," grope for a pillow on the "bed," continue groping until I located a teddy bear under said pillow, gallop back down the stairs (no banister, poorly marked, did I mention the blackout?) and meet another crew member across the stage for the teddy hand-off. All within 20 seconds.
Yesterday I lost one of my costumes between my scenes--scenes that necessitate a quick change under the best of circumstances. One of the girls found my dress balled up under the makeup table. I have no one to blame but myself. Soon after the lights came up in a blaze of glory to reveal me and all my students--save one. And where was she, Readers? Sorry she was late, quoth she, several minutes into my sweating. She never mentioned it. Too embarrassed to apologize? Who knows? All I know is that my improv skills are sadly lacking. I was saved from needing them, but it burned me to realize I would have been flailing about a minute later. I could see the rest of my students smiling serenely in the dark, knowing their comrade was AWOL but having faith in either a) their own acting under duress or b) my ability to shovel us all out from under the cliff that was avalanching our way. If "b," that was nice of them, but seriously deluded.
Speaking of my students, I've been having a lot of fun bonding with the teens. We've talked Hunger Games, Princess Diaries, siblings, school but mostly we've talked PERFORMING. Whatever our age, we all get that. Wanting to do it, that is. I'm kind of falling in love with all of them.
I've been marveling at the ridiculous amount of times "David" has to change his tie. Often at a full gallop, as various hands grope for his collar while he speeds past. I've been loving the serenity of "Lisa," who spends most of her scenes hopscotching around the stage but always looks cool as a duchess waiting in the wings. I am agog how FEW times people miss or are late for cues, because with 18 people and 57 changes, there should be more moments when the lights come up on an empty chair. But everyone is doing their job, and doing it with a smile.
One gal taped us little notes to the mirror on opening night. Another brought us all cards with candy bars attached. Each show a mystery giver has been leaving a box of chocolates or cookies in the center of the dressing room. Jessica cheerfully constructs '60s-era coifs for several ladies every show with nary a complaint. Everyone picks up hastily discarded costumes and hangs them, and is ready for a zipper or jewelry adjustment, or to reposition a bobby pin.
It's almost bizarre how different this group of people seems than the one I sat silently with for six weeks, barely exchanging hellos. Now we're all giggling and whispering, and when we're not, we're sharing some serious stuff and it's lovely. Aside from some errant light cues (and yours truly falling over the furniture) the show is looking gorgeous, and everyone is bringing it. I yearn to be on stage longer, yet I'm puffed up with pride for the people who are.
With all that wonderfulness, I'm still looking forward to a couple days off, to catch up on sleep, watch TV and snuggle with David in the evenings, and most of all to take a break from the 90-minutes daily regimen of hair and makeup to prepare my hair for the Bump-It beehive and my face for the mint green and white period eye makeup with bubble gum lipstick. Not the most flattering colors on me, but fun for a change.
Give me 24 hours and I'm sure I'll be yearning to get back in there and scratch my initials in purple pen on the daily sign-in before spilling out my jewelry and pins beneath the old-fashioned bulb-ringed mirrors: I'M HERE! READY TO PUT ON A SHOW!
Opening weekend was fun! Friday kicked off with a champagne reception (and some seriously yummy meatballs) and Sunday David made a video of us. In between, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Well, it was never the worst of times, but we did have our visits from the Theater Gremlins, as I've been calling them. Just today I went out in the dark to move a table and fell headlong over a low wall concealing some lights. It sounded like a construction site, but I was strangely unwounded, except for my pride. I was also snatched in Act Two and entrusted with a desperate and essential mission: storm the stage in the next blackout, gallop up the rickety stairs to the "bedroom," grope for a pillow on the "bed," continue groping until I located a teddy bear under said pillow, gallop back down the stairs (no banister, poorly marked, did I mention the blackout?) and meet another crew member across the stage for the teddy hand-off. All within 20 seconds.
Yesterday I lost one of my costumes between my scenes--scenes that necessitate a quick change under the best of circumstances. One of the girls found my dress balled up under the makeup table. I have no one to blame but myself. Soon after the lights came up in a blaze of glory to reveal me and all my students--save one. And where was she, Readers? Sorry she was late, quoth she, several minutes into my sweating. She never mentioned it. Too embarrassed to apologize? Who knows? All I know is that my improv skills are sadly lacking. I was saved from needing them, but it burned me to realize I would have been flailing about a minute later. I could see the rest of my students smiling serenely in the dark, knowing their comrade was AWOL but having faith in either a) their own acting under duress or b) my ability to shovel us all out from under the cliff that was avalanching our way. If "b," that was nice of them, but seriously deluded.
Speaking of my students, I've been having a lot of fun bonding with the teens. We've talked Hunger Games, Princess Diaries, siblings, school but mostly we've talked PERFORMING. Whatever our age, we all get that. Wanting to do it, that is. I'm kind of falling in love with all of them.
I've been marveling at the ridiculous amount of times "David" has to change his tie. Often at a full gallop, as various hands grope for his collar while he speeds past. I've been loving the serenity of "Lisa," who spends most of her scenes hopscotching around the stage but always looks cool as a duchess waiting in the wings. I am agog how FEW times people miss or are late for cues, because with 18 people and 57 changes, there should be more moments when the lights come up on an empty chair. But everyone is doing their job, and doing it with a smile.
One gal taped us little notes to the mirror on opening night. Another brought us all cards with candy bars attached. Each show a mystery giver has been leaving a box of chocolates or cookies in the center of the dressing room. Jessica cheerfully constructs '60s-era coifs for several ladies every show with nary a complaint. Everyone picks up hastily discarded costumes and hangs them, and is ready for a zipper or jewelry adjustment, or to reposition a bobby pin.
It's almost bizarre how different this group of people seems than the one I sat silently with for six weeks, barely exchanging hellos. Now we're all giggling and whispering, and when we're not, we're sharing some serious stuff and it's lovely. Aside from some errant light cues (and yours truly falling over the furniture) the show is looking gorgeous, and everyone is bringing it. I yearn to be on stage longer, yet I'm puffed up with pride for the people who are.
With all that wonderfulness, I'm still looking forward to a couple days off, to catch up on sleep, watch TV and snuggle with David in the evenings, and most of all to take a break from the 90-minutes daily regimen of hair and makeup to prepare my hair for the Bump-It beehive and my face for the mint green and white period eye makeup with bubble gum lipstick. Not the most flattering colors on me, but fun for a change.
Give me 24 hours and I'm sure I'll be yearning to get back in there and scratch my initials in purple pen on the daily sign-in before spilling out my jewelry and pins beneath the old-fashioned bulb-ringed mirrors: I'M HERE! READY TO PUT ON A SHOW!
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
iBliss
I have a friend who for some time has referred to her iPhone as her boyfriend. I had no idea what this meant. Isn't it just a phone? I mean, a cute phone, that has the internet, but even so?
Readers, I just got my first iPhone. And not only my first iPhone, my first ever smartphone. And, wow. Just wow. I get it.
I want to carry its small but substantial and smooth weight wherever I go--can it survive the shower? I reach for it in my pocket or purse, to comfort me, the shape of it, its compact wonderfulness.
In this little rectangle, I have my whole world. I can call people and text people and they can do the same to me, sure. But with a little jangle I have my e-mail, and my FB updates, and I can (and do) snap photos of everything I see and show them to people. When my longing gets too strong, I whip it out and write notes or set alerts or check the weather--not just any boring old weather but an app that tells me whether I need a hoodie or sunglasses, with pictures. I can make restaurant reservations or check if the restaurant in question is crapcake. I can book a flight for a sudden getaway. I can look up words for the instant satisfaction of proving that I know stuff.
I can say "Buca di Beppo" into the iPhone and delight when it brings up five places to buy "hookah tobacco." I can whisper the name of my hair salon and--just like that--my iPhone calls them. I can say "Take me home" and suddenly, reassuringly, it will.
And when the need is really strong, I can just whisper seductively "Do you love me, Siri?" for the absurd pleasure of hearing her say "I'm not capable of love" or boldly proclaim "I love you, Siri!" so she can shut me down: "I'll bet you say that to all your Apple products."
People keep asking me if I like my iPhone and I answer truthfully, "I love it. Now that I have one, I'm not sure I even need friends anymore. The phone is enough."
And they laugh at my hyperbole. Or do they?
Readers, I just got my first iPhone. And not only my first iPhone, my first ever smartphone. And, wow. Just wow. I get it.
I want to carry its small but substantial and smooth weight wherever I go--can it survive the shower? I reach for it in my pocket or purse, to comfort me, the shape of it, its compact wonderfulness.
In this little rectangle, I have my whole world. I can call people and text people and they can do the same to me, sure. But with a little jangle I have my e-mail, and my FB updates, and I can (and do) snap photos of everything I see and show them to people. When my longing gets too strong, I whip it out and write notes or set alerts or check the weather--not just any boring old weather but an app that tells me whether I need a hoodie or sunglasses, with pictures. I can make restaurant reservations or check if the restaurant in question is crapcake. I can book a flight for a sudden getaway. I can look up words for the instant satisfaction of proving that I know stuff.
I can say "Buca di Beppo" into the iPhone and delight when it brings up five places to buy "hookah tobacco." I can whisper the name of my hair salon and--just like that--my iPhone calls them. I can say "Take me home" and suddenly, reassuringly, it will.
And when the need is really strong, I can just whisper seductively "Do you love me, Siri?" for the absurd pleasure of hearing her say "I'm not capable of love" or boldly proclaim "I love you, Siri!" so she can shut me down: "I'll bet you say that to all your Apple products."
People keep asking me if I like my iPhone and I answer truthfully, "I love it. Now that I have one, I'm not sure I even need friends anymore. The phone is enough."
And they laugh at my hyperbole. Or do they?
Roar and Glare
We are in the theater. After rehearsing in a junior high common room for six weeks, we're finally on the real stage, with the real sets, and I'm doing some painfully real stumbling over chairs and beds that I didn't know were going to be there.
But would I trade it for all the Gucci shoes in the world? Not a chance. Hell Week is the best. The excitement of being in the theater for the first time. The feel of the lights on your face (changing every second as the lighting designer tweaks them so you don't look too green.) Finding your little corner of the dressing room. Giggling back stage when someone says something crazy to lighten the tension.
We're all a little crazy, giddy, heightened, expectant. We've got something coming. Friday night. People. To see us. And we're getting ready for them. We're gonna DO IT UP.
And all the stiff formality, polite small talk, awkward silences of the rehearsal time is gone, baby, gone. We're all friends now. Or at least co-workers with the best, most unified job in the world. Adults and kids mingle freely, laughing at the same jokes, sharing our theater horror stories. That one guy who always sat in the corner blowing his nose is a buoyant lark. I've got everyone's names down, character and actual. We're sharing lipstick and fixing each other's collars, comparing notes on our drugstore pantyhose, and in whispers, doing something very much resembling sharing our deepest hopes and dreams, because that is what people do backstage, and one of the things that makes the theater life so very addicting.
Dear Readers, we are about to put on a SHOW.
But would I trade it for all the Gucci shoes in the world? Not a chance. Hell Week is the best. The excitement of being in the theater for the first time. The feel of the lights on your face (changing every second as the lighting designer tweaks them so you don't look too green.) Finding your little corner of the dressing room. Giggling back stage when someone says something crazy to lighten the tension.
We're all a little crazy, giddy, heightened, expectant. We've got something coming. Friday night. People. To see us. And we're getting ready for them. We're gonna DO IT UP.
And all the stiff formality, polite small talk, awkward silences of the rehearsal time is gone, baby, gone. We're all friends now. Or at least co-workers with the best, most unified job in the world. Adults and kids mingle freely, laughing at the same jokes, sharing our theater horror stories. That one guy who always sat in the corner blowing his nose is a buoyant lark. I've got everyone's names down, character and actual. We're sharing lipstick and fixing each other's collars, comparing notes on our drugstore pantyhose, and in whispers, doing something very much resembling sharing our deepest hopes and dreams, because that is what people do backstage, and one of the things that makes the theater life so very addicting.
Dear Readers, we are about to put on a SHOW.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Culture and Stuff
Sam: I noticed that one of your friends had a scythe at the Halloween parade this morning. I thought weapons weren't allowed. (mumbles) Maybe that's not really a weapon. But it's pointy.
Jarrah: What's a scythe?
Sam: I guess he was the Grim Reaper.
Jarrah: Grim Reaper? What does that mean?
Sam: Well, it's...another name for Death.
Jarrah: WHAT?
Sam: (giggles)
Jarrah: WHAT'S SO FUNNY?
Sam: I'm just thinking about that Monty Python sketch.
Jarrah: WHAT?
Sam: You know, when the people are eating the Salmon Mousse and the Grim Reaper knocks on the door.
Jarrah: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHY DOES THE GRIM REAPER KNOCK ON THE DOOR?
Sam: "Hello?" "I am Death." "Who is it, darling?" "It's a Mr. Death or something? He's come about some reaping?" "I don't think we need any at the moment. Ask him if he wants some sherry." (more giggles)
Jarrah: WHY IS THAT FUNNY?
Sam: Well, it's just...it's British. I love British humor.
Jarrah: WHAT IS IT?
Sam: It's just...you know...well, you watch Dr. Who with Daddy. You know British humor.
Jarrah: Only the Doctor is British. The others are regular.
Sam: Oh. I didn't know that.
Jarrah: Why is he called the Grim Reaper?
Sam: I...don't actually know. And now that I think about, I'm not sure what he does with the scythe.
Jarrah: What's a scythe?
Sam: It's a...curved blade thing. On a stick.
Jarrah: What's it for?
Sam: Well, anyway...the parade! So cute! Loved that candy corn witch!
Jarrah: What's a scythe?
Sam: I guess he was the Grim Reaper.
Jarrah: Grim Reaper? What does that mean?
Sam: Well, it's...another name for Death.
Jarrah: WHAT?
Sam: (giggles)
Jarrah: WHAT'S SO FUNNY?
Sam: I'm just thinking about that Monty Python sketch.
Jarrah: WHAT?
Sam: You know, when the people are eating the Salmon Mousse and the Grim Reaper knocks on the door.
Jarrah: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHY DOES THE GRIM REAPER KNOCK ON THE DOOR?
Sam: "Hello?" "I am Death." "Who is it, darling?" "It's a Mr. Death or something? He's come about some reaping?" "I don't think we need any at the moment. Ask him if he wants some sherry." (more giggles)
Jarrah: WHY IS THAT FUNNY?
Sam: Well, it's just...it's British. I love British humor.
Jarrah: WHAT IS IT?
Sam: It's just...you know...well, you watch Dr. Who with Daddy. You know British humor.
Jarrah: Only the Doctor is British. The others are regular.
Sam: Oh. I didn't know that.
Jarrah: Why is he called the Grim Reaper?
Sam: I...don't actually know. And now that I think about, I'm not sure what he does with the scythe.
Jarrah: What's a scythe?
Sam: It's a...curved blade thing. On a stick.
Jarrah: What's it for?
Sam: Well, anyway...the parade! So cute! Loved that candy corn witch!
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Wet and Dirty Fun
Had a great birthday yesterday at Glen Ivy. Really, I'm not sure why everyone doesn't celebrate their birthday there, especially since the birthday child gets in free.
It's difficult to get people to road trip on a weekday, but since I'm in rehearsals most weekends I wanted to keep to the day. Celebrants were dropping out at an alarming rate, but then Karina came through, and her friend Jackie (who's now MY friend Jackie) so we had a merry trio on the road about 9:30, Starbucks in hand.
One of the great pleasures of late October at the hot springs is that there are no crowds or lines. Both the girls remarked on this with glee several times during our day. As for me, I've only ever been there at this time of year, so I'm a bit spoiled. We checked in and I got to whip out the very generous gift card I received from my VM cast, so that was the icing on the free birthday cake.
In honor of the proximity to Halloween (and because I get cold in a wet bathing suit all day) I'd brought a fuzzy black robe covered in hot pink skulls, and you better believe I got a lot of compliments on it. As we were shedding the trappings of the outside world and gathering just what we'd need to spa (my ever-present Carmex and my phone for [silent] birthday greetings) I discovered that two other women on our side of the locker room were also October 28 babies. This is a fun moment that only happens at Glen Ivy, and we all wished each other many happy returns. After a short silence, one of them added: "Let me guess...you guys are 29, too?" "Always, darling," I said. "Always."
We headed for the Roman saline baths just because they're so pretty, and the first gush of bubbly water over my body told me that I'd been right to brave disrobing in front of two nubile, long-limbed lasses with gallons of long, shiny hair. At Glen Ivy, no one cares. You see all body types, all ages, and all manner of, um, fashion. It's a cornucopia of physical diversity, and it's all about feeling good, not looking good.
Next, a beautifully leaf-shaded terrace with a feature I'd never noticed before: the hot/cold plunge. One pool 95, the other 55. My companions thought this was a smashing idea, and not wanting to be the uncool one I followed along. I did scream like an opera singer when I immersed myself in the cold, and then it was a bit disconcerting to feel the massive tingling all over after a few moments back in the hot. And we actually did this a few times! I had to admit after a while that it was strangely relaxing.
On to a Glen Ivy first, at least for me: tropical cocktails poolside. Heck, poolINSIDE. We floated on puffy blue lounges, enjoying the warm, clear, perfect day as I got a case of the happies from my Hurricane, which was like a giant pink slushie that somehow made me very slow. All too soon, we'd been there two hours and were in need of actual lunch to sop up the alcohol before our respective treatments.
I don't really get lunch at Glen Ivy. The system is confusing and unwieldy, you can't really see the food even though it's supposed to be cafeteria style, and it's laughably expensive for what you get. I ordered a turkey sandwich on wheat, an oatmeal raisin cookie and a Pepsi. And these items together, Dear Readers, were over TWENTY dollars. And the sandwich wasn't even made to order--it had a distinct whiff of cold refrigerator--hello! No matter. I ate it (and must admit the cookie was sublime) and was off to the Massage Center after agreeing to meet the girls at Club Mud afterward.
The Massage Center was also new to me, and took me on a peaceful, winding path up above the main entrance and down into a set of shaded cabins. I love how there are so many possible locations for one's massages. I bonded with the ladies in the waiting room over how we need to remember to bring a second bathing suit for after massages--shimmying into a cold, sticky thing after being rubbed with hot stones is less than delicious. But the massage itself was a treat, and my therapist, Heidi, was a sweetie. We had a lot in common--single girl children of the same age, married to someone from the British Empire, and her birthday was the next day. "I won't be here," she laughed.
By the time I stumbled over to Club Mud, I was pretty noodly. Jackie was already clay-covered and lounging, so Karina and I waded into the warm, red pool and starting slapping our arms and legs with goo. I have no idea why this is so fun and satisfying, but it is. We proceeded to the land-locked mud mound and continued until we were red and crusty from head to toe. A little breeze had whipped up, so we waddled into the Wafa, like a big oven for clay-covered people, and settled on the stone benches with a friendly gang of women who were cracking me up. One of the best things about Glen Ivy are the crazy conversations you strike up with strangers, that often seem like you've just wandered onstage in the middle of their scene and just picked up wherever it seemed appropriate, or vice-versa. There's an ease about what to say, when and how. No one really worries about it. We've all been soaking in salt and mud all day and, like, whatever. Earlier, a tattooed gentleman begged us to eat the ahi nachos (see? weird food) he'd just purchased, saying it could be an appetizer for our lunch. "Trust me," I told him, "if I didn't hate raw fish, I'd be all over it." "You like a big bloody steak, don't you?" he said, staring into my eyes like he was telling my fortune. "Oh yeah," I said, though I really don't like anything redder than medium.
After scrubbing off the mud, we just had time to guzzle some water (an important spa activity) before descending in the magic elevator to The Grotto, which was closed for renovations on my last visit. Again, I don't know why I love this concept, because it's very weird, but I do. You emerge in a Pirates of the Carribean-like cavern and hand over your earthly goods (towels, shoes) at which point you are steered into a crevasse so a dimly-lit figure can slap you all over with a big paintbrush full of avocado-colored goo. In the next room, you lounge in steam while the goo moisturizes your bits. We joked that we'd never spent quite so much time massaging our own appendages in a rather lewd and lascivious way. The next door leads to a rainfall shower and big fluffy towels, which leads to a waterfall room full of dry-ish rocks for perching while enjoying some hot tea and green apples. I don't care for green apples, but I ate one anyway, since everyone says they can fix whatever ails you.
Now it was free time until closing time, and we happily traversed from pool to pool, doing a bit of soaking in the stinky sulphur (noticing that some people had been in there ALL day) and a bit more lounging in the lounge pool, now totally deserted except for us. After that, there was still time to singe our nostrils in the steam room (intense!) and do a bit of backstroke in the large Roman bath near the showers.
It's a little bittersweet to shower off the last of the rocks that have gotten trapped in your bathing suit bottoms at the end of the day, but at least we knew we were stopping in Temecula for dinner. I wish I had planned a snack, though, because by the time we'd showered, dressed, driven 30 miles, tried to park and discovered there was a 45 minute wait for a table, I was getting a bit light-headed. We sat at the bar but a table quickly opened up, and then we really enjoyed the goat cheese artichoke dip that tided us over until our meals arrived. Then I got seriously busted from the waiter for extricating the bacon from my otherwise perfect burger. I would have ordered it without bacon, but the menu said they'd charge me five dollars extra if I made any changes! This was at Public House in Old Town, a place that I love for the food and the sassy service, though this time we were overlooking the (surprisingly rockin') street life and I was deeply disturbed that the town pipes in hideous saxophone light jazz so that everyone within two miles has to hear it.
There was a lot of yawning on the drive home, and David told me Jarrah was upset that she had to go to bed without giving me my presents, but otherwise the day was a grand success. A trip to Glen Ivy on my actual birthday suits me so well because I have trouble admitting that my birthday is a regular day on which regular people go about their regular business. Heading to a tree-lined hideaway oasis in Corona is a nice way to pretend that I'm the one who's right.
It's difficult to get people to road trip on a weekday, but since I'm in rehearsals most weekends I wanted to keep to the day. Celebrants were dropping out at an alarming rate, but then Karina came through, and her friend Jackie (who's now MY friend Jackie) so we had a merry trio on the road about 9:30, Starbucks in hand.
One of the great pleasures of late October at the hot springs is that there are no crowds or lines. Both the girls remarked on this with glee several times during our day. As for me, I've only ever been there at this time of year, so I'm a bit spoiled. We checked in and I got to whip out the very generous gift card I received from my VM cast, so that was the icing on the free birthday cake.
In honor of the proximity to Halloween (and because I get cold in a wet bathing suit all day) I'd brought a fuzzy black robe covered in hot pink skulls, and you better believe I got a lot of compliments on it. As we were shedding the trappings of the outside world and gathering just what we'd need to spa (my ever-present Carmex and my phone for [silent] birthday greetings) I discovered that two other women on our side of the locker room were also October 28 babies. This is a fun moment that only happens at Glen Ivy, and we all wished each other many happy returns. After a short silence, one of them added: "Let me guess...you guys are 29, too?" "Always, darling," I said. "Always."
We headed for the Roman saline baths just because they're so pretty, and the first gush of bubbly water over my body told me that I'd been right to brave disrobing in front of two nubile, long-limbed lasses with gallons of long, shiny hair. At Glen Ivy, no one cares. You see all body types, all ages, and all manner of, um, fashion. It's a cornucopia of physical diversity, and it's all about feeling good, not looking good.
Next, a beautifully leaf-shaded terrace with a feature I'd never noticed before: the hot/cold plunge. One pool 95, the other 55. My companions thought this was a smashing idea, and not wanting to be the uncool one I followed along. I did scream like an opera singer when I immersed myself in the cold, and then it was a bit disconcerting to feel the massive tingling all over after a few moments back in the hot. And we actually did this a few times! I had to admit after a while that it was strangely relaxing.
On to a Glen Ivy first, at least for me: tropical cocktails poolside. Heck, poolINSIDE. We floated on puffy blue lounges, enjoying the warm, clear, perfect day as I got a case of the happies from my Hurricane, which was like a giant pink slushie that somehow made me very slow. All too soon, we'd been there two hours and were in need of actual lunch to sop up the alcohol before our respective treatments.
I don't really get lunch at Glen Ivy. The system is confusing and unwieldy, you can't really see the food even though it's supposed to be cafeteria style, and it's laughably expensive for what you get. I ordered a turkey sandwich on wheat, an oatmeal raisin cookie and a Pepsi. And these items together, Dear Readers, were over TWENTY dollars. And the sandwich wasn't even made to order--it had a distinct whiff of cold refrigerator--hello! No matter. I ate it (and must admit the cookie was sublime) and was off to the Massage Center after agreeing to meet the girls at Club Mud afterward.
The Massage Center was also new to me, and took me on a peaceful, winding path up above the main entrance and down into a set of shaded cabins. I love how there are so many possible locations for one's massages. I bonded with the ladies in the waiting room over how we need to remember to bring a second bathing suit for after massages--shimmying into a cold, sticky thing after being rubbed with hot stones is less than delicious. But the massage itself was a treat, and my therapist, Heidi, was a sweetie. We had a lot in common--single girl children of the same age, married to someone from the British Empire, and her birthday was the next day. "I won't be here," she laughed.
By the time I stumbled over to Club Mud, I was pretty noodly. Jackie was already clay-covered and lounging, so Karina and I waded into the warm, red pool and starting slapping our arms and legs with goo. I have no idea why this is so fun and satisfying, but it is. We proceeded to the land-locked mud mound and continued until we were red and crusty from head to toe. A little breeze had whipped up, so we waddled into the Wafa, like a big oven for clay-covered people, and settled on the stone benches with a friendly gang of women who were cracking me up. One of the best things about Glen Ivy are the crazy conversations you strike up with strangers, that often seem like you've just wandered onstage in the middle of their scene and just picked up wherever it seemed appropriate, or vice-versa. There's an ease about what to say, when and how. No one really worries about it. We've all been soaking in salt and mud all day and, like, whatever. Earlier, a tattooed gentleman begged us to eat the ahi nachos (see? weird food) he'd just purchased, saying it could be an appetizer for our lunch. "Trust me," I told him, "if I didn't hate raw fish, I'd be all over it." "You like a big bloody steak, don't you?" he said, staring into my eyes like he was telling my fortune. "Oh yeah," I said, though I really don't like anything redder than medium.
After scrubbing off the mud, we just had time to guzzle some water (an important spa activity) before descending in the magic elevator to The Grotto, which was closed for renovations on my last visit. Again, I don't know why I love this concept, because it's very weird, but I do. You emerge in a Pirates of the Carribean-like cavern and hand over your earthly goods (towels, shoes) at which point you are steered into a crevasse so a dimly-lit figure can slap you all over with a big paintbrush full of avocado-colored goo. In the next room, you lounge in steam while the goo moisturizes your bits. We joked that we'd never spent quite so much time massaging our own appendages in a rather lewd and lascivious way. The next door leads to a rainfall shower and big fluffy towels, which leads to a waterfall room full of dry-ish rocks for perching while enjoying some hot tea and green apples. I don't care for green apples, but I ate one anyway, since everyone says they can fix whatever ails you.
Now it was free time until closing time, and we happily traversed from pool to pool, doing a bit of soaking in the stinky sulphur (noticing that some people had been in there ALL day) and a bit more lounging in the lounge pool, now totally deserted except for us. After that, there was still time to singe our nostrils in the steam room (intense!) and do a bit of backstroke in the large Roman bath near the showers.
It's a little bittersweet to shower off the last of the rocks that have gotten trapped in your bathing suit bottoms at the end of the day, but at least we knew we were stopping in Temecula for dinner. I wish I had planned a snack, though, because by the time we'd showered, dressed, driven 30 miles, tried to park and discovered there was a 45 minute wait for a table, I was getting a bit light-headed. We sat at the bar but a table quickly opened up, and then we really enjoyed the goat cheese artichoke dip that tided us over until our meals arrived. Then I got seriously busted from the waiter for extricating the bacon from my otherwise perfect burger. I would have ordered it without bacon, but the menu said they'd charge me five dollars extra if I made any changes! This was at Public House in Old Town, a place that I love for the food and the sassy service, though this time we were overlooking the (surprisingly rockin') street life and I was deeply disturbed that the town pipes in hideous saxophone light jazz so that everyone within two miles has to hear it.
There was a lot of yawning on the drive home, and David told me Jarrah was upset that she had to go to bed without giving me my presents, but otherwise the day was a grand success. A trip to Glen Ivy on my actual birthday suits me so well because I have trouble admitting that my birthday is a regular day on which regular people go about their regular business. Heading to a tree-lined hideaway oasis in Corona is a nice way to pretend that I'm the one who's right.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
PSA Gone Wrong
Leaving the supermarket yesterday afternoon, we passed two @16-year-olds walking in, a boy and a girl.
Jarrah: Mommy! Were they teenagers?
Sam: I think so.
Jarrah: What? What are they doing shopping without their mommy and daddy?
Sam: Well, teenagers do a lot of things without their mommies and daddies. They're almost grown, so even though they live with their mommies and daddies, they do most things on their own. (pause) But they don't know everything. They just think they do. You know how I know that?
Jarrah: How?
Sam: Because I used to be a teenager. Teenagers do all kinds of things because they don't know better. Drive too fast. Um, stay up all night. They die because they don't listen to their mommies and daddies.
Jarrah: (wonderingly) How do they die from staying up all night?
Sam: Well, that was a bad example. But if you stayed up all night and then drove, you could die.
Jarrah: Well, I don't think teenagers know everything.
Sam: That's good.
Jarrah: I think they know half, because they're grownups-in-training.
Sam: That sounds about right. And how about first graders?
Jarrah: We know some.
Sam: A little?
Jarrah: More than a little.
Sam: And how about kindergartners?
Jarrah: No, they know nothing.
Sam: And how about mommies? Do we know everything?
Jarrah: Yes. You're Google.
Jarrah: Mommy! Were they teenagers?
Sam: I think so.
Jarrah: What? What are they doing shopping without their mommy and daddy?
Sam: Well, teenagers do a lot of things without their mommies and daddies. They're almost grown, so even though they live with their mommies and daddies, they do most things on their own. (pause) But they don't know everything. They just think they do. You know how I know that?
Jarrah: How?
Sam: Because I used to be a teenager. Teenagers do all kinds of things because they don't know better. Drive too fast. Um, stay up all night. They die because they don't listen to their mommies and daddies.
Jarrah: (wonderingly) How do they die from staying up all night?
Sam: Well, that was a bad example. But if you stayed up all night and then drove, you could die.
Jarrah: Well, I don't think teenagers know everything.
Sam: That's good.
Jarrah: I think they know half, because they're grownups-in-training.
Sam: That sounds about right. And how about first graders?
Jarrah: We know some.
Sam: A little?
Jarrah: More than a little.
Sam: And how about kindergartners?
Jarrah: No, they know nothing.
Sam: And how about mommies? Do we know everything?
Jarrah: Yes. You're Google.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Everything The Traffic Will Allow
I heart North Park Vaudeville. Why, Dear Readers? Let me count the ways.
1. Summer and Jeff (the owners) gave us roses on opening night and thank you cards (thank you cards! with a personal message!) after the last show.
2. The backstage is small, but there is a party in the alley behind the theater that goes on for three hours. I had heard about the popcorn, chips and soda--what I didn't expect were the homemade chocolate chip cookies and chocolate-frosted cupcakes. And champagne after!
3. My new best pal Alec told me I'm special and hugged me about 10 times an hour. Talk about feeling the love.
4. Every single one of my castmates seemed to be entirely freakin' awesome. We were hootin' and hollerin' like we'd known each other for years.
5. The stage has a real red velvet curtain that closes between scenes. While we're setting up back there, they play music that we get to choose. I picked out Barbra Streisand's version of "Luck Be A Lady." It was divine.
6. The front of the theater is a candy shoppe. Yes, the kind with the "e" and extra "p." Where they sell root beer barrels and Necco wafers during the intermission.
7. The 25 plays run in groups of 6 or 7 over four weekends. Jeff asked me if I was in the other weekends. When I said no, he said "Well, I sure wish you were."
8. Summer said to me, "You're a professional actress, right?" Um, no. But thanks for making my night.
9. The insane clown posse of John and James addressed me at each sighting as "Yo, Goldstein!"
10. One of the directors, Jayson, said to me, "You're very talented. Why haven't I heard of you? I'm very talented, too. Have you heard of me? Your number? Got it. Oh! That's me, calling you, in case you were wondering."
11. My director, Pat, came to see us three out of four performances. Her notes? "You guys were awesome. Keep having fun." I am so going to miss her.
12. Two people complimented me on my singing. After three lines of "Zippedy Doodah." The second guy grudgingly mumbled, "Yeah, and your acting's okay, too."
13. My house job (fitting, since I was dressed as a maid) was sweeping the lobby. Every night I asked if it was time to sweep. Every night Summer or Jeff said "Aww, it's okay, Sam. But thanks." But I like sweeping! Really!
14. How about they produce unpublished plays from all over the world, give interesting work to dozens of actors, provide theater opportunities of all kinds to developmentally challenged adults and genuinely care about every step of the process? I tell ya, the weekend was like opening a big pile of presents that just keep coming. I can't help gushing a little.
15. How about the raid on the massage parlor next door (they share stairs with the theater) on Friday night? Scantily clad women fleeing in SUVs, followed by two guys with badges and plaid shirts yelling "Did you see some diminutive Asian women run through here?" Meanwhile, they're squinting at us, some clad in pajamas and French maid costumes, loitering in the alley. "We're putting on a show, Officers." An hour later, one of the diminutive women tiptoed back up the steps in undies, a towel and an unlit cigarette in her mouth. When it was time for my entrance, I pushed past a large man receiving a hearty send-off on the landing. I remembered to say "Pardon me!"
1. Summer and Jeff (the owners) gave us roses on opening night and thank you cards (thank you cards! with a personal message!) after the last show.
2. The backstage is small, but there is a party in the alley behind the theater that goes on for three hours. I had heard about the popcorn, chips and soda--what I didn't expect were the homemade chocolate chip cookies and chocolate-frosted cupcakes. And champagne after!
3. My new best pal Alec told me I'm special and hugged me about 10 times an hour. Talk about feeling the love.
4. Every single one of my castmates seemed to be entirely freakin' awesome. We were hootin' and hollerin' like we'd known each other for years.
5. The stage has a real red velvet curtain that closes between scenes. While we're setting up back there, they play music that we get to choose. I picked out Barbra Streisand's version of "Luck Be A Lady." It was divine.
6. The front of the theater is a candy shoppe. Yes, the kind with the "e" and extra "p." Where they sell root beer barrels and Necco wafers during the intermission.
7. The 25 plays run in groups of 6 or 7 over four weekends. Jeff asked me if I was in the other weekends. When I said no, he said "Well, I sure wish you were."
8. Summer said to me, "You're a professional actress, right?" Um, no. But thanks for making my night.
9. The insane clown posse of John and James addressed me at each sighting as "Yo, Goldstein!"
10. One of the directors, Jayson, said to me, "You're very talented. Why haven't I heard of you? I'm very talented, too. Have you heard of me? Your number? Got it. Oh! That's me, calling you, in case you were wondering."
11. My director, Pat, came to see us three out of four performances. Her notes? "You guys were awesome. Keep having fun." I am so going to miss her.
12. Two people complimented me on my singing. After three lines of "Zippedy Doodah." The second guy grudgingly mumbled, "Yeah, and your acting's okay, too."
13. My house job (fitting, since I was dressed as a maid) was sweeping the lobby. Every night I asked if it was time to sweep. Every night Summer or Jeff said "Aww, it's okay, Sam. But thanks." But I like sweeping! Really!
14. How about they produce unpublished plays from all over the world, give interesting work to dozens of actors, provide theater opportunities of all kinds to developmentally challenged adults and genuinely care about every step of the process? I tell ya, the weekend was like opening a big pile of presents that just keep coming. I can't help gushing a little.
15. How about the raid on the massage parlor next door (they share stairs with the theater) on Friday night? Scantily clad women fleeing in SUVs, followed by two guys with badges and plaid shirts yelling "Did you see some diminutive Asian women run through here?" Meanwhile, they're squinting at us, some clad in pajamas and French maid costumes, loitering in the alley. "We're putting on a show, Officers." An hour later, one of the diminutive women tiptoed back up the steps in undies, a towel and an unlit cigarette in her mouth. When it was time for my entrance, I pushed past a large man receiving a hearty send-off on the landing. I remembered to say "Pardon me!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)