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the wig and the glasses

Well, I have stumbled upon something truly disturbing. Something I did not think it was possible to find because it’s something I didn’t even know existed.

Last week, I was clicking around on the website of a local ensemble theater with whom I used to work. They’re a big deal around here, lots of kudos and accolades.

Hm. But not really while I was there.

Oh, now, pshaw! I’m sure that’s a mere coincidence.

Anyhoo. They have an in-house playwright who has, over the years, written an annual show for the Christmas season. So this is a picture of me, from, oh, several moons ago, in one of these shows. A picture I never knew existed, much less would ever have thought would be on their website.

festival87a_tn.jpg

I’m on the right with the codfish mouth and the precious hands. My character’s name is Rosemary and I am a little dreamer nerd full of little dreamer nerd ideas who develops a hopeless crush on a mysterious sailor who comes to stay at my uncle’s seaside inn. That’s my Uncle Nicholas being kissed by my snippy sister Charlotte, who is much less interesting than I am, to be completely forthcoming with you.

But can we please discuss the wig? THE WIG!! I’d forgotten that INSANE creation! I wish the shot wasn’t profile because the width of this thing needs to be seen straight on to be truly believed. I mean, I felt like it needed some kind of steel armature to hold it up. Girders. Rebars. Whatever. I needed construction guys with orange cones to stand near me with stop signs just so other people could maneuver around me. There needed to be beeping sounds of warning accompanying the movements of that mountainous thing. It gave me raging headaches and possibly permanent brain damage. It was massive in a neurologically compromising kind of way. Every night of the show, once that thing was cemented to my head, cast members would see me and guffaw helplessly. The wig itself was pure comedy. See that huge riot of curls and ribbon on the side there? Well, there is another matching riot of curls and ribbon on the other side of head, just as huge. Instead of one or two or three little ringlets, there were, oh, six, seven, ten? And as the show went on, I started to believe there was a conspiracy to add more and more ringlets to Rosemary’s wig. And when a girl’s hairdo becomes wider than her hips, there is a big problem.

Oh, and see Uncle Nick’s spectacles? Well, I am wearing a pair of spectacles just like them. A pair of spectacles with a loose lens, that, yes, would fall out onto my cheek from time to time onstage forcing me to improvise ….. something … hold it up to my eye, hold it away from my eye, shove it onto my eye and squinch my eyelids around it, whatever. Once when that happened onstage, the other actress in the scene just started shaking with laughter at the sight of that stupid lens teetering atop my cheekbone. She was visibly quaking. Oh, and this was a small theater in the round so the audience wasrightthere. The poor girl had this big speech and was supposed to look at me, talk to ME all the while, and she simply COULD NOT. Her face was beet red from the effort of simultaneously stifling guffaws and saying her lines. I mean, look, I was just standing there, pippa, minding my own Rosemary beeswax, fiddling about with my loose spectacle lens, trying to make it a character bit. Please calm down everyone! I was probably upstaging her, but, well, FIX MY LENS, I implore you!! I begged the costumers to fix it, but I think the director just preferred to leave the situation as it was and see what I would do with it.

Basically, I looked and acted completely nutso in a dreamy romantic bookwormy nerd kind of way. My own DAD, when he came to the show, turned to my mom and said, “I thought Tracey was in this show. Where is she?” Hahahahaha. I was utterly unrecognizable. I sported a British accent. I was trapped under a giant wig mountain. I was at the mercy of capricious wobbly glasses. It was NUTS.

Some acquaintances who came to the show and then waited for me afterwards, shuffled their feet and said, “So, uh … which one were you? I didn’t see you!”

“Uhm ….. yeah, the crazy nerd girl? With the huge screaming curls? And the glasses? Okay. ‘Member the girl who fell down running onstage tonight? Yeah, that was me. It was an accident. I slipped. I’m a dork.”

“Oh, yeah! That was funny when she fell during the song! That was you??”

“Uhm, yes.”

“Wow. We didn’t recognize you AT ALL. And we just thought that fall was in the script!”

“Uh, nope. I am actually supposed to stay standing while singing ‘Carol of the Bells,’ but it didn’t work out that way tonight.”

“Hahahahaha! We loved that part!”

“Yes, hahahahaha.”

“That wig you wear is crazy.”

“I know.”

They looked at my smushed, de-wigged hair.

“So …. this is your hair now underneath the wig?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.”

“No, no. Uhmm ….. the color is pretty.”

“Yeah …. well, thanks.”

Ah, yes.

Good ol’ nerdy dreamy crazy-wigged Rosemary who left me with smushed hair for a good six months after the show closed and intermittent headaches and crossed-eyes and permanent brain damage.

I loved her.

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for “sylvia”

You say that capitalism saves the world. You say that death is an instinct for you. You say that you no longer believe in love.

These are just some things you say.

So I wonder: in the face of this instinct of yours, this cold thing calling to you, what will your messiah do to help you? How will it come to your aid or give you comfort or the tiniest glimmer of hope in your isolation? How will it do these things? How does the god of capitalism save a person’s heart and soul?

I’m willing to have you hate me. I’m willing to have you think I’m an idiot, a fool, clinging to my religion, whatever. I’m willing to have you say, “That girl is whacked; I’m never talking to her again.” I’m willing to have you despise me forever, if you must. But right now, you are in a very dark cold place. The demons of too many wounds are swirling around you and they want you. I can feel them from here and I am not willing to remain silent.

That you’ve been so horribly abused in your life, I can never ever take away. I would if I could, hon. I would in a heartbeat. You’ve experienced profound evil, so you must surely know it exists.

But …….

I know you’ve known love, too. Maybe not enough. Maybe not often enough or consistently enough. But along the way, you have and, even now, you do.

So there isn’t just evil in this life. There is love, too, and it comes from somewhere. It has a Source. Water has a source. Light has a source. These basic things have a source. So love, that most important of things, must have a source, too. It can’t be manmade, can it? No. No. We’re too unreliable. We’re too selfish and blind and fickle and uncaring. We are the wind. And you need a Rock.

You were prayed for the other night. Total strangers wept for you. Total strangers took you — anonymously — and laid you and your very life at the feet of Jesus.

They did because I asked them to. And I ask anyone reading this now to do the same. Because there is love, hon. The Great Love, The Source, Jesus Christ.

He is Love and He does not disappoint. He is the one your heart longs for even though you can’t acknowledge it. He understands you like no one else ever has or ever will. He speaks your name with joy and pride for what He made in you.

Go ahead. Tell him you’re pissed. Tell him life has f***ed you over. Tell him you’re terrified. Tell him you want to die. Tell him you despair. Tell him you hate. Tell him you think He doesn’t exist. He can take it. He is, simply, Love.

You will do what you will do. I cannot stop you from here. I cannot hop on a plane to where you are. I cannot pick up the phone and expect you to answer. I cannot take whatever it is out of your hands. I would, if I were there. I would fight you and the cold thing calling you with everything I have.

But I can’t and I have wept long over the fact that I can’t. All I have is this battered keyboard and these feeble words and these aimless tears that are falling for you even now, as I write.

All I can do is tell you please do not leave this life without calling on Him. You do that and I have no doubt He will live up to his end of the eternal bargain.

Then, my very dear girl, if you feel you simply must leave this place ….. well, then, someday, I will meet you there, okay?

I love you.

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more on “idol”

You know, since I live in San Diego, aka Adam Lambert Country, it was interesting to watch the local news coverage after Kris Allen won. THE LEAD STORY was basically how Adam was robbed — Adam was robbed — don’t you think, random dude on the street, that Adam Lambert was robbed?

Okay. Look. Enough with that. Adam’s being more gracious than that and he’s the one who didn’t win. Random dude on the street, uhm, this didn’t happen to you, okay? Clearly, when you get to the top two in Idol, you have to realize that maybe the other guy WILL win. There is a reason why that other contestant is there and you, as the other guy, must consider that that person might win. Just because someone is not as flashy doesn’t mean it’s safe to underestimate his appeal. And it looks like Adam did consider that, but Adam’s fans and the press and Simon Cowell, even, could not conceive of an Idol ending that didn’t include Adam as the winner. But I’m sorry, that’s just their own shortsightedness. I don’t want there to be this shadow over the win for Kris Allen, these whispers of “he really doesn’t deserve it” or something. Obviously, people voted for him. I voted for him and I haven’t voted on Idol since the first season.

People need to look at it this way: Adam is hugely talented. This is not a news flash, obviously. He’ll have no problem getting a record deal. Producers have got to be salivating over him right now. Plus, he’s free. He has a freedom now that Kris Allen doesn’t have, so no one should feel bad for him. No one. Kris Allen has the bigger burden now: the burden of the “Adam was robbed” whispers, the “it’s an anti-gay thing” whispers, and the burden of sudden fame on his brand new marriage. Look at his reaction last night when he won, “Ohh, Adam deserves this.” Even the new American Idol had seen the outcome as a foregone conclusion. I mean, that look on his face when his name was announced: Total shock.

It’s going to be hard for the kid. Overcoming all that. Especially if he thinks it himself, which I really don’t want him to do.

Adam is the better singer, it’s true. He has a God-given gift. But Kris may well be the better musician. And I happen to like his voice, too, but it’s not this soaring undeniable force that Adam has. Think about it. To the best of my knowledge, Kris is the first Idol winner to play both guitar and piano. (Apparently, he also plays the viola. I love that. I mean, who plays the viola?) The guy is a talented musician, he demonstrated that repeatedly over the season, and perhaps is more of a total package than Adam.

No, you’ll hear no boo-hoos from me for Adam. I mean, he’s not even boo-hooing for himself because he knows he doesn’t need to boo-hoo. He’s smarter than that and more gracious — which is nice. He knows the effect he’s had because he’s ALL ABOUT the effect. He knows he’ll be fine. Finer than fine.

Let’s just say “What a great finale with two great contestants who deserve whatever success comes their way.”

Because it’s true. They do. In my opinion, the best American Idol finale ever with the best top two ever.

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we are chatting

Sarahk and I have been Gmail chatting our way through the American Idol finale.

We’ve been talking about fancy places, trollops, onesies, etc. And we simultaneously chat-screamed when Steve Martin showed up playing some sexy banjo. Or as I wrote in a frenzy “bamjo.”

I didn’t know life could be so good.

How about that Kris Allen? WOW. Good for you, dude. Good for both of you. You’re both going to be stars, I think. Each of you in his own distinct way.

Gmail chat, trollops, sexy bamjos.

Good times. Good times.

(Sarahk’s fabulous Snark of the whole event — in which she includes my chat comments, with my permission.)

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okay, gammie

Look. I see you staring at me in the produce store. I see you. Don’t think I don’t. And, you know, Gammie, just because I have produce stickers stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, it doesn’t make me a weirdo.

I’m a weirdo because I have produce stickers deliberately stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, okay, Gammie? I have plans, and, yes, they involve produce stickers and what of it anyway and maybe you just need to CALM DOWN about it, Gams.

Really. Please. It’s not polite to stare.

You’re a gammie. You should know this.

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ai: the difference

The American Idol finale just ended. Or, I should say, the final night of singing just ended. Adam Lambert vs Kris Allen. And I have to say, I’ve kind of fallen in love with Kris Allen because, over the course of the season, he’s surprised me more than anyone else. (Last week’s version of Kanye West’s “Heartless,” anyone? I’ve listened to that repeatedly.)

Adam is Adam: a diva, a great singer, a glam rocker, dramatic, a bit much, all that. Fairly static in what he’s going to do. I’ve known what to expect. Yet, I still don’t know what you do with him as a solo artist. Kris, for me, has been the more surprising and versatile of the two: playing piano, guitar, changing songs up in fresh ways, without those soaring vocals of Adam, yes, but with an accessibility factor that should not be underestimated.

For me, the difference is this: Adam invites you to stand there and watch him. Kris invites you in. I admire Adam’s performances, but there’s no room for anyone else, if that makes sense. He doesn’t want to share the moment; it’s always his. On the other hand, I feel what Kris does. He shares. There’s a warmth there that makes room for the audience to join in.

Adam says, “Look what I have.” Kris says, “I have this, want some?”

It’s the difference between just standing there drooling with envy over my friend’s 1965 Mustang convertible with the Pony interior and my friend smiling, tossing me the keys, and saying, “Wanna take it for a spin?”

That’s the difference, to me.

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notes on sunday

A family get-together at my brother’s (aka The Banshees’ dad).

~ First, and most important, I made my Mocha Chip cupcakes. Whenever I excel in the kitchen — you know, based on my own impartial estimation — I think of Jayne. I want her to be proud of me. I’m needy. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I talk to Jayne in my kitchen. Out loud. I tell her what I’m doing. “Jayne, look at the espresso beans I’m using for these cupcakes.” “Jayne, check out my mushroom cream sauce.” Stuff like that. So, uhm, also: I’m insane and possibly hallucinatory.

~ Original Banshee and Baby Banshee wore matching dresses. They looked adorable and yummy so I gobbled them up whole. Kind of a bummer, really. They didn’t get to have any Mocha Chip cupcakes, but on the upside, they were just as tasty as I always imagined.

~ So to my many outstanding attributes, add: cannibalism. It’s a real flaw.

~ And you probably wouldn’t think an outing involving cannibalism could be fun, but you’d be wrong, peaches. You’d be so very wrong.

~ Older Nephew handed me his iPod and let me listen to some tracks he’s recorded. Uhm, the kid’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.

~ Younger Nephew was forced to show me his abs. Meaning, I forced him, naturally. As his aunt, I feel I need to be kept up to date on their status. Current status: Six-pack, maybe even seven.

~ Within 15 minutes of his arrival, Younger Nephew plopped himself on top of his mom and me on the sofa. You know, we’re just hanging out, having some semi-private sister time and a nearly 15-year-old kid who is taller than both of us throws himself across our laps all because he knows I will rub his head. And I did.

~ Later, an impromptu volleyball-with-a-beach ball game broke out in the backyard. Baby Banshee was in charge of “serving” the ball over the net. Since she’s only 14 months old, this involved her cousin, Younger Nephew, lifting her up above the net with the beach ball in her chubby hands while she squealed and plopped it over the net. So cute. Younger Nephew is so good with little kids. Gets me all choked up.

~ When the Doritos and chips were brought out and we all began munching, Original Banshee started running over from the volleyball game about every two minutes — breathless from standing there in her dress — and saying, “Oh! I need more energy!” while stuffing a Dorito in her mouth. It was hilarious. The way she said “Oh!” as if she had the vapuhs and needed her smellin’ salts.

~ At one point, we all trudged down the road to a nearby canyon to check out the rope swing. Now Piper, who ADORES her Uncle Beloved, wanted to walk with him and talk with him and hold his hand. Original Banshee, who ADORES her Cousin Piper, wanted some to walk with Piper and talk with Piper and hold her hand. Alas, these were conflicting desires, you see. Piper wanted Uncle Beloved all to herself. But I’ve discovered one can never underestimate Piper’s understanding of what makes people tick and one can never underestimate her perception into a given situation. It doesn’t matter that she’s only eight years old. She has an uncanny insight about people and she definitely knows what makes Original Banshee tick. So as she was holding Uncle Beloved’s hand, she said slyly to The Banshee, “Hey, Banshee. Our group needs a leader! We need someone to lead us there!” And — KAPOWW! Piper lands the knockout punch! What? A leader? The spotlight? Me?? The Banshee was GONE instantly in a puff of Banshee smoke. MB just looked down at his little niece holding his hand and said, in that kind of “you’re busted” voice, “Piperrrr ….. you’re a tricky one.” She just smiled up at him and said, “I know.” Hahahahahaha. I’m still laughing about this. You go, Peeps.

~ We were all treated to a performance of “Put on a Happy Face” by Original Banshee. Girl can sing. On key. And she’s very cute. But she IS a little performing monkey. She just craves that spotlight and will probably arrange to have one following her around for the rest of her life. (Why everyone seems to blame me for this tendency, I have NO idea. When I was five, I couldn’t put two words together, I was so cripplingly shy.) Piper sat on her mom’s lap and watched her little cousin sing, just agape. It was like she was thinking, “What is she DOING??” Piper’s energy is much more laid back and easygoing, so I think she wearies of her little cousin more quickly than The Banshee knows or would even suspect at this point. I literally had to stifle guffaws watching the performance because, just looking from one cousin to the other, their differences were so glaringly apparent: the Banshee performing as if no one but Piper was even in the room; Piper plainly astonished by the spectacle of it all. Those two just kill me.

~ The Mocha Chip cupcakes were devoured. In spite of what I said before, Baby Banshee did get to gobble a portion of cupcake and then, well, probably didn’t sleep that night because of the ground espresso in the cake.

~ As we left, both MB and I scored hugs AND kisses from Original Banshee, which is a decided step forward. She just has her way, you know. We drove away into the night feeling all high and victorious and warm inside.

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for nightfly

For your iced coffee needs!

Here’s a link to a toddy maker very similar to the one we used at The Beanhouse when we made smaller batches of toddy — usually for decaf. This would be good for home use, I think, just looking at it. I have not personally used this, but I’ve used ones that look nearly identical.

If Ladybug likes iced coffee so much, she might really like to have this on hand.

In fact, I think I want to get one, now that summer’s almost here. YUM.

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snippets

~ Well. You look very Love Boat.

*****

~ He has a conspiracy mustache.

*****

~ You know the man with the Midas Touch? Yeah, that’s not me.

*****

~ Don’t you think that going “k-k-k-k-k-k” to yourself as a kid is a little OCD?
~ No. I think it’s winning.

*****

BANSHEE: Mommy, they talked about idols in Sunday School and the teacher asked us why we shouldn’t have them. I said because idols would make us unhappy with God and she said I NAILED it.

BANSHEE’S MOM: Well, I think you got it, sweetie.

BANSHEE: But, Mommy, do you think I NAILED it?

BANSHEE’S MOM: Yes, honey. I think you nailed it.

(Okay. Pardon the interruption. This is Tee Tee. Uhm, Banshee? Precious performing monkey? Could you please give Tee Tee, your favorite auntie, your Sunday School teacher’s phone number and/or email address? Tee Tee is just wondering why five year olds are even being taught the concept of idols. She just finds it rather …. odd. I mean, shouldn’t you be coloring pictures of Joseph’s many-colored coat and stuff like that? So, yeah. That’d be great, Banshee. Don’t worry. Tee Tee just wants to have, you know, a friendly little chat.)

*****

~ I hate you when you’re driving.
~ No. You hate me when I’m backseat driving.
~ But now you’re driving and you’re telling me how to backseat drive.
~ So I’m front-seat driving?
~ You’re front-seat and backseat driving and I hate you.

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look, starbucks

All right. I admit. Since I no longer have my own coffeehouse, I’m now a coffee whore. I patronize whatever-whichever coffeehouse happens to be closest to my hot little hands at any given moment. Seattle’s Best, Peet’s, independent coffeehouses, and, yes, even Starbucks. So, whatever, I drink around. A coffee slut with no deep foundational principles or steely moral core; that’s me. This, because I started to feel sorry for Starbucks since they now suck so bad and because I evidently thought my personal patronage would make ALL THE DIFFERENCE in their sucky bottom line.

But there are ongoing customer service problems I’ve encountered that go beyond their typical bitter brew. I’ve experienced these two issues at multiple Starbucks locations now, so it’s not a fluke or something unique to a particular location.

And I must address them.

(And Katie, I know you work at Starbucks — please don’t hate me.)

All right.

1) The way Starbucks handles the simple purchase of a cup of coffee is totally whack.

Here’s how they do it:

~ You order your cup of coffee.
~ They take your money.
~ They give you change.
~ (You leave a tip for, um, receiving nothing at this point.)
~ Again, they have your money, they have a generous tip, YOU have nothing yet.
~ So your end of the transaction is over — the cashier has moved on to the next customer, even, — but you must stand there off to the side, trying not to be in the way, while someone is back there, pouring your coffee. You hope.

No, Starbucks. NO. This is lame. It’s rude. It’s awkward for the customer. It creates a traffic jam. Not to mention it’s just flat-out inefficient. It happens EVERY time I go — in EVERY Starbucks I patronize. It’s like they’re told, “Get the money first and maybe the customer will just wander off and forget they ordered coffee.”

I understand, of course, that when you order a latte, a cappuccino, any other bar drink, you need to wait for it. But for a simple cup of coffee? No. NO.

Here’s the way to do it, Starbucks. The right way. Uhm, the way I did it, which — this cannot be overstressed — is THE RIGHT WAY:

~ Customer orders a cup of coffee: “I’ll have a small coffee.”
~ Cashier punches in the order and says, “That’s going to be $1.60” or whatever.

This next part is the key:

~ Cashier then steps away and actually gets the customer’s coffee for her.
~ This brief moment allows the customer time to dig around for the cash to pay for the coffee.
~ Cashier places freshly poured coffee in front of customer and repeats the amount due.
~ Customer pays, gets change, leaves a tip, and most importantly, her end of the transaction is over AND she has her coffee, simultaneously. Imagine that!

See that? That’s an even, simultaneous exchange. Coffee for money, money for coffee. No one stands like a poor lost soul in no man’s land waiting for her cup of coffee. No one gets the sense that you care more about her money than you do about her satisfaction. It’s beautiful is what it is.

Moving on.

2) The way Starbucks handles its paper coffee cups is whack. By that I mean, the way the barista grabs the cup into which they pour the coffee. (Yes, I notice even this tiny detail.)

Before I describe how they do it, I need you to picture your typical stack of paper coffee cups at your local coffeehouse. Picture it in your head right now. They’re stacked like a little paper pyramid, right? Stacked upside down, one on top of another. (Or they should be.) The bottom of the coffee cup is on the top of the stack, closest to the barista using it. You’ve got that in your head now, right? Okay.

So you’ve ordered a cup of coffee and here’s what Starbucks does:

~ Barista grabs a coffee cup
~ Barista grabs a cup sleeve
~ Barista puts the sleeve on the cup, most likely touching the lip of your cup — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — with his hands, which, well, might be clean but might not be. And let’s not forget, there’s the dread swine flu. Now, personally, I’m not really a germaphobe, but some people are and coffeehouses need to take that into consideration. And anyone who puts milk, sugar, etc., into his coffee will do a “test-taste” after stirring and drink from the cup with the lid off. Right? You take the lid off to add stuff and then stir it and taste it before putting the lid back on. Right? Well, of course, right. I watched this every day. I mean, I secretly TIMED people at the condiment stand with my stopwatch, for Pete’s sake. I noticed things.
~ Barista pours coffee into the cup and then — ugh — grabs a lid, gets his hands all over it — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — and, ta da, hands you your pristine cup of coffee. YUM. Drink up!

No, Starbucks. Again, NO.

Here’s the way you handle your cups. The right way. The way I did it.

Someone has ordered a cup of coffee.

~ You grab a cup sleeve, FIRST — key, key, key
~ You shape it into an O — just curl your fingers
~ You take that O of a cup sleeve and you slam it down on the bottom of the cup at the top of the pyramid
~ You take a finger from your free hand and place it on the cup pyramid — in the space between the top cup and the next cup in line — and use it as a little bit of leverage whilst you pull the top cup off the pyramid by the sleeve that you just placed on it. This whole action takes two seconds. It’s fast. It’s easy. And no customer will every say, “Did you just put your finger on/in my cup, the top of my cup, somewhere I don’t want it?” Because that does happen. People notice. Or, rather, certain people are prone to notice and make it an issue. So just de-issue it, okay? De-issue everything as much as possible on the front end of things. This method — the “O” coffee sleeve method — is so fast, so clean, really, I don’t understand why I don’t see it at every coffeehouse I ever go to, but I’ve only seen it in two places: The ol’ Beanhouse and later, my own coffeehouse.
~ The final step, the lid step — well, that just shouldn’t be happening, in my opinion. Lids should be at the condiment stand for customers to put on for themselves. I know putting lids on for the customers minimizes spills, but I never once had a customer complain about being able to handle their OWN lid. It gives them control and they don’t worry about any random barista cooties.

And, sometimes, pippa, I hate to tell you: there be cooties.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fought the urge to demonstrate the O Coffee Sleeve Trick to Starbucks employees. I mean, I have stood in Starbucks recently, like, oh, maybe today, literally telling myself, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.” A couple of weeks ago, I took a manager’s business card from the little cup on the counter vowing to “write him a helpful letter.”

I have not done that.

But I still have the card ….