Why I Can't Win

Trying to brush Jarrah's hair while she marches in place and pinwheels her arms around.

Sam: Be still! Ugh! Why can't you just stand there? Pretend you're a snowflake.

Jarrah: Snowflakes aren't still. They fall from the sky.

Sam: Okay, pretend you're a rock.

Jarrah: No, people can move rocks around.

Sam: Fine. Pretend you're a star in the sky.

Jarrah: Stars twinkle. And shine on people. Also they disco.

Sam: They disco?

Jarrah: Yes.

Falling Star

It's all over. No more Tuna Christmas. Back to real life now. No more rehearsals, call times, uncomfortable costumes, finicky audiences, crazy adrenaline highs or late nights. Until the next show.

I'm a bit dazed. For one thing, I didn't get out of bed until 11:00. A special shout-out to my husband for getting the kid ready and off to school this morning with no help from his snoozy princess actress wife. There should be some sort of support group for theater spouses, with excellent snacks and possibly cocktails.

I'm going to make a list of things I will miss about this show, and things I will not miss. Lists make me feel better.

What I Will Miss:

1. Lip-synching "Strangers in the Night" in the dark with the whole cast as we wait for our curtain call.

2. Gossiping about family, kids, marriage, Tiger Woods and the theater lifestyle in the "girls' side" wings with the other--as Duke called us last night--"hags" (Hi Elouise, Connie and Shelley!) in our bad wigs and garish makeup.

3. That first music cue, where we all hold our breath to see if it's a "good" audience tonight.

4. The boys--Greg, Kenny and Aaron--sashaying around in their dresses and giant bosoms.

5. Hi-fiving Jolie (my "little sister") as she squeezes by me for the scene right before my entrance.

6. Charlene's pink glasses (alas, they broke) and saying "I can't afford to waste my artistic integrity on that pathetic little shrub." And her walk.

7. Hearing myself go "jingle-jingle-jingle" every time I nod because of my fuzzy bell antlers.

8. Inita's coffee cup apron, and the way it feels to dance in cowboy boots. And people saying "You look amazing with black hair!" afterwards.

9. The look on people's faces when Greg and I run through the audience after winning our "award." And waving to our "boyfriends." That scene is such a high.

10. Slithering along the flats when I hear Garland say "Hi, Inita" in his distinctive nasal whine. And what it feels like to breathe "We're fine, cute stuff. You know, Garland, I sure wish you came in cans...I'd pop your top every five minutes!" Heaven help us--this is the line Jarrah has been quoting verbatim.

11. When I tell Petey (the amazing John, who plays four characters) I'll go get some lettuce for his iguana, I am only miming getting some lettuce. But every time, without ever having discussed it, my "best friend Helen" (Greg in drag) is waiting behind the curtain with his hands out, offering me some imaginary lettuce. And every time, I reach for it without irony, and carry it carefully back out into view. To clarify: No one sees us do this. We are backstage. But it happens the exact same way every time, as if we as actors have wordlessly agreed to suspend our disbelief in the same way we're asking the audience to do. There's something truly, magically idealistic about this, like a pure belief in the Tooth Fairy or wishing on a penny in a fountain. It makes me happy to be an actor.

What I Won't Miss:

1. Stuffing my jeans. I so enjoyed throwing my ass away this morning. Bye bye, ass! Don't let the door hit you on the way out!

2. The damp, freezing, consumptive environment that is the Point Loma Assembly backstage. And the way the door to the girls' wing doesn't close and people are always flinging it open when I'm half-naked.

3. Yeah, that's probably it. When is the next show?

Tonsorial Temptation

It has come to pass. The moment much discussed with other, more seasoned moms, the moment I always secretly, smugly believed my child was far too sensible for.

No, it's textbook. Like a love of bubbles and balloons, a need to write on the walls, and the sudden, inexplicable peeing in the pants while 10 feet from the bathroom.

Jarrah hacked off some of her hair. Several pieces, about three inches long. Which should be really obvious on her straight, shiny curtain of near-blackness, but for some reason, isn't yet.

We were sleeping at the time. Had begged for a few more minutes. She said okay. But the Scooby Doo movie, apparently, was over. The cinnamon toast was dispatched. There was only one thing left to do.

Pick up those pink Hello Kitty snippers and SNIP! And now it is done, for posterity. Mark the date on the calendar. Two weeks from her fifth birthday, Jarrah heeded the siren call of the scissors.

I've cut up bills, tickets, money, socks and stuffed animals. I've really enjoyed that. But the thrill is gone. I need to get that buzz again. Maybe if I cut up something I've never cut before. My pajamas? No, the princesses have immunity. But hey! What's this hanging over my face? It looks so...cuttable. And hey! Don't people pay money to have their hair cut? And hasn't Mommy been saying it's been way too long? Heck, I'd be doing everyone a favor here!

Off to SuperCuts to obscure the damage.

I Need A T-Shirt With A "P," For "Punished."

The piper has arrived, demanding payment, claiming I'm in arrears. I'm sick. Oh happy joy.

I actually woke David up in the middle of the night (well, I'm sure I was doing that anyway, with all my sniffling) to ask if he thought I had swine flu. He clamped a hand on my forehead and said:

"No. You're cool."

"So?"

"You can't have swine flu without a fever."

"Oh. And you're sure I don't have a fever?"

"I'm sure. Also, do you have aches and pains?"

"No."

"You don't have swine flu."

Well, okay then. But my stupid nose is crazy-stuffed, and I'm going through tissues like I just watched Marley and Me.

Also, I have a strong desire to lay on the couch with blankies and a heating pad, watching trashy movies, drinking Gatorade, eating food high in partially hydrogenated oil, and pouting.

What's that a symptom of?

I want to say I've learned my lesson--NO MORE LATE NIGHTS FOR ME! But no. I haven't learned a damn thing. I just want to get better by Friday so I don't have a Rudolph nose on stage and so I can stay up late again.

You wouldn't think I'd been around long enough to have learned a thing or two, would you? Don't answer that.

It Never Rains In Southern California

Long weekend, mostly nocturnal. During the day I was barely sentient. Which is my own fault, because I stay up too late after shows, and I've never had this three-a-weekend schedule before. It's kicking my ass. (And not just the pillow one.)

Saturday night was indeed a come-down after the Friday Night Howlers. They were very polite and restrained on Saturday. Two of my writing students came, and one even told me that she thought it was very funny but didn't want to laugh too loud because it would be unseemly. Hello? Unseemly is my middle name. Sunday night the laughter was back, but nothing close to Friday. I think Friday may have been the Hailey's Comet of audiences. At least I got to see it once. Saturday I was a bit spooked about forgetting lines and I think it made me tentative. Which is a bummer since David was making the video that night. Sunday night I was over it and back to making a valiant effort to chew the scenery. Mmmmm, scenery is tasty.

Sunday night my friend Bryan was there, all the way from L.A. It was the first time he'd come to one of my shows, and it was very exciting for me to finally have nabbed him. As I've mentioned previously, Bryan and I actually met in Drama class, and did our thespian initiation to a scene from Taming of the Shrew. He still greets me with the line "A combless cock! And Kate shall be my hen." from time to time. That was (gulp) 25 years ago. He went on to fame and glory in Hollywood (well, more than me--he was on Saved By The Bell) while I didn't soar higher than a medal for acting at the Cal State Fullerton Drama Festival my senior year. But Bryan and I are still as dramatic as ever, so it's a treat to have him in the audience.

It's been raining since I opened my eyes this morning and it's now 7:00 p.m., which is par for the course in some parts of the world, but seriously freaky for San Diego. There was a comedy of errors this afternoon when I picked Jarrah up from school and told her to wait in the car while I got the groceries. The grocery bags got wet when I opened the trunk, causing the bags to break, and while I was trying to stuff the escaping groceries in some different bags, my umbrella blew away. I was soaked to the skin with strawberries rolling around in my trunk when I heard a muted "Mama! Mama!", and saw Jarrah's face in the window with an "O" mouth and a pointing finger--in the direction of my umbrella, which was hightailing it down our street on the back of a monsoon-like wind. I chased it all the way down the block, laughing my head off. On the way back, Jarrah stared at me like I'd totally lost it.

Jarrah has been pillish of late and my fuse has been short. I find I am at my wit's end with the pointless tantrums at least once a day. Maybe my memory is bad, but didn't at least one of those many "your baby and child"-type books I scoured say that she would be an even-tempered angel, ready for an audience with the queen, by her fifth birthday? No? You don't remember that part? I'm pretty sure I read that. And we are definitely going to get kicked to the back of the line with the way things are going. I sometimes wonder if she acts out because I've been gone a lot (first with rehearsals, now with shows) or if the problem is on the other side: I'm too tired and impatient to parent effectively. It's worrisome, and also makes me feel guilty. That's my favorite combination of feelings. As snug as one of those blanket things with the sleeves.

Any Way The Wind Blows

Last night I experienced the best audience of my life. Like, the best audience in history. They were primed. From the moment the lights went down, they were howling. We were backstage looking at each other like "Hell, yeah!" And it wasn't even a full house. They were just that ready for us. The rare times I got to actually look at them, they were smiling from ear to ear, with expressions like "Entertain us, baby. Give us all you've got." Okay, then.

And because they were so awesome, it had to be the night when I messed up. A lot. Well, not a lot, but a lot for me. I don't mess up very much. It's not that I think I'm so amazing, more that I've been standing in front of large-ish audiences for 17 years, talking about Hawthorne and anaphora and Jewish jokes, and my focus is good. I don't forget lines. I don't get nervous and blank.

Until I do, apparently. In my first scene, it occurred to me half-way through that I'd forgotten to wear my hilarious pink cat-eye glasses. I did manage to find them and put them on. I could also feel my wig slipping off my head and had to yank it back. But worst of all, I changed a word in one of my lines, which cued my "Mama" to skip ahead six lines. And there went the rest of my scene. That was not like me, and such a bummer.

Also, the audience was so demented, I was not remembering to pause for laughter. We've heard a lot about this pausing for laughter thing, but it's never been really necessary before. Last night, it was necessary. If we said something, we needed to pause, or the next line was going to be lost. That is crazy and incredible.

In Act II, a sound cue (a ringing phone) never happened, and my scene partner Greg was left to wander the stage like a ghost, waiting for someone to haunt. I stood behind the flats wondering what was going on until our stage manager came up behind me and hissed, "JUST. GO." and gave me a little push. Now I was also on stage, and staring helplessly at Greg. I'm not sure how long we did that, but eventually I just started a scene that seemed appropriate, and we went from there.

But later, I totally blanked when I was supposed to shout lines from off-stage. I blanked even though my scene partner Aaron was fiercely murmuring "Street urchin, street urchin, street urchin" which was all the cue I needed, if I hadn't been freaking out and ignoring him.

So I was a bit unsettled. And throughout, there was the howling laughter, the balm of forgiveness and acceptance. Which, because I am me and crazy, made me feel guilty. I wanted to rush out there and announce "You guys! You are so sweet to laugh, but we are MESSING UP! You should come another night when we don't mess up!"

And I realized that I will never, ever experience this again. You know how you just know things? There will never be another audience that loves us in the same way again. You can never go home again. It's never as good as the first time. And all that.

So I'm glad I got to experience that kind of love, but I hope that tonight, I remember my lines. And hope they are not greeted by stony silence. Because I've been there, too. Distinctly not as awesome.

Afterward, our director took us to a cute new wine bar for a drink, where I drank a big glass of chardonnay and ate no food, then stood up and found I didn't remember how to walk that well. It was a while before it seemed like a good idea to get in the car. Luckily, I had company and cake.

When I pulled up to the house at 3:30, I noticed that there was glass all around David's new car. And air where his window should be. Uh-oh. When I woke him up to investigate, he discovered that someone had tried to steal his iPod, not the car. They didn't get it, but now he needs a new window.

Movie Review: This Is It

I've waited over a month to see the Michael Jackson concert documentary, mostly out of stubbornness because I just could not believe the hype about the "two week engagement." Sure enough, it's now December (the movie opened on my birthday) and a dramatic disappearance was an empty threat.

If you've heard that--as a documentary--it's a little weird, you won't hear differently from me. Clearly, the director (also MJ's concert director) Kenny Ortega is working with limited material here. The footage is raw, mostly without costumes and effects, though we do get to see some beautiful set-pieces in the making--my favorite is the towering back-lit building frame for "The Way You Make Me Feel," especially when the dancers are scurrying up and down the scaffolding in time to the music.

And Michael himself is weird. He's emaciated, and often appears to be wearing sequined pants and tops as his everyday casual wear. He never takes his sunglasses off, and he mostly says "God bless you" and "It's all about L-O-V-E" when he does say something, which isn't often.

On the other hand, his voice--though he sometimes holds back because he's in rehearsal--is still pure and transporting, and damn, the man can MOVE. The years and whatever he's done to himself don't seem to have impacted his signature style in the least. He's a charismatic dancer to the end.

And he knows what he wants. He's not a tyrant, but he's definite about his desires, firmly but gently correcting his producers, technicians, musicians. His instincts seem spot-on, too. When he asks for a moment of silence, or an extra bar of bridge, it's the right choice--the drama is heightened just so. And drama is what he's unabashedly going for.

When it comes down to it, though, the rehearsal footage of some of MJ's most famous songs is not enough to keep me engaged. I doze off a bit in the middle. For me, the real story is introduced in the first five minutes, and while it simmers tantalizingly in the background (literally) it never really pops. And that story is the dancers.

The movie opens with close-ups of Michael's backup dancers, with a few words from each. Some of them are in tears (it's not clear whether this footage is pre- or post- news of MJ's death.) One of them talks about what an honor it is to work with the man who was world famous before they were even born.

We see some all-too-brief audition footage, with some fascinating soundbites from the directors and choreographers. One explains that, in an MJ show, "the dancers are an extension of the man." My favorite quote comes from a choreographer during the winnowing process from hundreds of dancers:

If you don't have that goo, that ooze, coming out of you--you're not going to get the job.

I love how raw and delicious this notion is, that charisma must be gushing out your pores for you to belong in this project. After all, the King of Pop would expect nothing less from himself.

When the auditions are done, there are 11 male dancers chosen for the show. Apparently, there are female dancers, too, but we barely see them. The male dancers, however, are on display--a solid but mutable background--for the entire film.

And here's where I start to get disappointed. All that talk of goo and ooze makes me sit up and take notice. More like that, please. Let's hear from these dancers, their impressions of the auditions, the rehearsals, the great man himself. They are clearly spending the most time with him. But almost immediately they are clumped into a single entity, emphasized by the cutaways to them cheering and clapping for their idol during the rare occasions he is on stage without them. Once, they are shown doing a synchronized wave during the chorus of "I'll Be There," but offstage.

Yet I can't stop looking at them. They clearly have the goo and the ooze. One towheaded mop-top in particular keeps pulling my eye, the expression on his face like he can't believe his luck, that he knows he's making entertainment history with every crotch grab. It's so charming and revealing. When the camera pulls back for a wide shot, my eye is drawn away from the pale, elf-like MJ in front and towards the boys in their baggy pants and backwards hats, dancing their sweet little hearts out. And doing it like it's the last thing they'll ever do. They really do look like an extension of him, but more present, more vital. Their commitment and passion shine on their faces.

Little did they know it was the last thing MJ himself would ever do. And that all their hard work would be relegated to a grainy documentary, and never once would they feel what would take the place of the cue:

"And wait for applause...applause...and slow umbrella, fade out."

And that's a different kind of tragedy.

Flying Up Ceremony

In the next couple of months, I have to decide where Jarrah will be going to kindergarten next fall. This isn't an easy decision, because while our neighborhood public school is across the street, it's the only one in our local cluster of five that doesn't report high test scores. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not really clear on what the test scores mean, and that I'm not a big believer in tests as a major indicator of learning. But still. The fact that the other four schools have very high scores is enough to make me want to check them out. And the fact that San Diego has the "choice" program, where I can enter Jarrah in a lottery for any school I want, is both encouraging and overwhelming.

Recently, I called all five schools to ask about tours. I had a wide range of responses. One of them has tours every Monday, at 7:30 a.m. (heaven help us.) One of them has a special touring day once a month. Two of them said yeah, sure, they'd have tours but they didn't know when yet. And our neighborhood school chortled and said "Tours? Just come in and we'll give you a tour. Anytime."

Today I went on my first tour. I did the monthly one, because it is only monthly, and because 8:30 sounded at least a smidge better than 7:30. The school is Benchley-Weinberger, and it's one of two magnet schools on my schedule. (The other one is Green, which is an Athletics magnet. That sounded idiotic to me until they explained that the kids get P.E. five days a week instead of one (!) like the other schools. What the @#$%&*? Kindergarten with only one day of P.E.?)

Benchley-Weinberger's magnet is Communication. I am all for Communication, and starting it young. They are also something called a "California Distinguished School," which they apparently had to apply for, an arduous process arduous enough that they may let the honor expire. We were invited to meet in the auditorium for a short presentation and video, followed by a tour of the classrooms, library and computer lab. And I was practically on time.

I know I must have a few local readers who are going to be familiar with the schools I mention, and who will be far more knowledgeable about public elementary schools in general if they have older children than I do. I encourage you to share your impressions with me (privately if you wish) because I am trying to learn here. I don't have a lot to go on--just what I'm told. I plan to tell you about my tours as I take them (the deadline for enrollment is February 15) and I'd like all the advice I can get.

I didn't catch the name or position of the gal who gave the tour, though she was friendly and enthusiastic. We briefly met the principal, who described herself as as grandmother, one who would be "proud" to see any of her grandchildren at B-W. We also met two little girls who welcomed us in sign language. One of the Communications features of the school is that the kids learn sign language starting in kindergarten. They also have Panda Pals, which is why one of the girls was more like a third grader, escorting her kindergarten pal.

This little display brought tears to my eyes, a sudden and embarrassing development that continued throughout the hour. Certain things about the place (or the idea of the place?) stirred up some kind of inexplicable emotion for me. I also got choked up seeing the kids in the library, watching them work at little round tables in the kindergarten classrooms, and hearing one of the kindergarten teachers tell me that they spend a lot of time working on what it means to focus on a task, in case the child did not pick up this skill in preschool.

I wondered about my tears. I have heard many people say they cried when their child started kindergarten because it seemed like they were growing up, but my child has already been attending school full-time for two years. It's not like her schedule (or mine) will change. Something else was afoot. Maybe it's the knowledge (displayed prominently) that she will be reading and writing, two pleasures so dear to my heart. She'll have access to a world that has been my constant support for longer than I can remember, and this feels significant. Maybe it's the idea that she will be making friends that she may know for years, or forever. Maybe I'm freaked out by having to make such a big decision for her, choosing her daily environment until she's 11 years old--what if I make a terrible mistake? Maybe it's just the abstract wondering about how she will be: happy, busy, motivated? sullen, lonely, struggling? I almost can't bear considering the latter.

In any case, I enjoyed the tour. Despite the grim state of the buildings (why do all California schools look like bunkers from WWII?) the classrooms were decorated with student art and the teachers seemed cheerful. The kids were busy reading and writing and drawing at different "stations." I liked the idea of the campus "news station" (which even kindergarteners can anchor) and newspaper, and the fact that they take field trips to the theater. It frightened me to hear that the school could lose its magnet at any moment due to budget cuts, or that the size of the kindergarten classroom could go to 29 for the same reason. But I won't avoid those problems on my other tours unless I start thinking about private school, and I can't see that happening.

After the official tour, we were encouraged to wander around, poking our heads into older classes, or anywhere we wanted to go. I liked that, and found that I was feeling peaceful now. Not so much because at least one school seems like a warm and inviting place, or even because I get a bit high researching things (though I do.) I think I was feeling peaceful because I remembered that I believe in Jarrah, and know she is up to the challenge of a new place, new friends, new tasks, new information. I might wring my hands about where to send her, and wring my hands frequently (even after the decision is made) but she is the constant.

She welcomes what is new, and that's always been true. Wherever she ends up, she'll be happy. And having this kind of trust and certainty in her makes me so very lucky.

Do You Hear The Lambs, Clarice?

Lately Jarrah's been asking for "real life" stories when she goes to bed. When I press her for specifics, she narrows it down to "bee stories."

By this, she means the small collection of stories I've assembled over the years in which bad things have happened to me or my loved ones involving bees. She will listen to these over and over:

Once, Daddy and I went to an outdoor movie theater, and they gave us blankets in bags. And when Daddy opened his, a bee flew out and stung his finger, even though it was nighttime. It hurt a lot.

Once, I was walking around in flip-flops at my sister's soccer game, and a bee stung my toe. It blew up and became huge. I screamed and screamed. My mom had to take me home and throw me in the bathtub.

Once, Daddy and I were at the Starlight Ampitheater and a bee stung his toe while we were smelling the flowers. It hurt a lot and blew up. When it stayed that way for two weeks, I made him go to the doctor. Turned out it was infected, and he needed antibiotics.

Once, when your Aunt Lindsey was a baby, she followed a bee around the window with her little finger and finally squished it. It stung her and she screamed a lot.

That's as detailed as the stories get. For one thing, I don't remember them that well, and besides--she doesn't care. She really just wants to hear that people screamed. I know this, because she starts getting confused and asks for other "real life" stories that don't involve bees, but also involve screaming.

"Tell the one where Uncle Karl was screaming in bed."

"Oh, that one isn't about bees."

"Tell it."

Once, when Uncle Karl was little, he started screaming in the middle of the night and we all came running from our rooms. When we got to him, he was throwing his pillows and blankets in the air like a crazy person, screaming "There are crabs in my bed! CRABS! AAAAHHHH! CRABS!" Pop-Pop tried to calm him down but he wasn't even awake. The rest of us stood in the doorway staring like, "Whatever."

"Tell the one about Pop-Pop screaming in the car."

"That one doesn't have to do with bees."

"Tell it."

Once, when we were on our way home from Sea World, I was sitting up front and asked Pop-Pop if we could listen to one of my 8-Track tapes. He said sure. I put in Paul McCartney and Wings and "Silly Love Songs" started up. It starts "EE-OO-AH-OO-EE-OO-AH-OO," a mechanical sound. Pop-Pop went "AHHHHHHH!" and swerved the station wagon over to the side of the road. I stared at him and he kept screaming "AHHHHHHHH!" I said "What's the matter?" and he screamed "THE CAR IS BLOWING UP! DO YOU HEAR IT?" "That's the song," I whispered, and knew I was somehow going to be in trouble.

Jarrah laughs and laughs whenever I get to the part in the stories where someone screams and freaks out. The car blowing up in particular tickles her like mad. "Again!" she screams. "Again!"

"But I've already told it three times. You know it!"

"I don't care! Again!"

I need to start gathering more childhood memories where someone was screaming. Apparently, hearing about people screaming is like hot milk and back rubs to my very strange kid.

But How Do You Really Feel?

Sometimes I go back and look at older posts from this blog. Yes, Readers, you need not point out that my narcissism knows no bounds, but it's also just a fun way to see how Jarrah is changing.

I don't usually do this, but today I found a post from December of 2007--two years ago--and couldn't resist reprising it. Believe it or not, it's VERY short, so check it out.

Apparently, not much has changed after all.