Since they were killed.
Rest in peace, Aunt M and Uncle B.
Since they were killed.
Rest in peace, Aunt M and Uncle B.
MB is out of town for the next several days. I always have anxiety the first night he’s gone — I mean, I already know I will barricade the bedroom door and load my gun tonight — but right now, I’m sitting here, eating a brownie and writing, all while cozy in my sock monkey pajamas. They comfort me. They make me think of my own sock monkey when I was a little girl, dear old Funny Baby, who lived most of his weary life with his tail wrapped around my thumb which I then jammed into my slobbery little mouth.
Oh, but not that the pajamas are made of sock monkeys. No. Let me be clear. That would be lumpy and give a person scoliosis, or worse, that acromegaly thing I’m always quivering in fear about. No. There are sock monkeys on the jammies. And they’re busy, doing various things, gettin’ it done: one seems to be drunk on a beach, sipping from some umbrella drink in a coconut; he’s the shiftless party monkey. You do not want to be around the drunken monkeys when they start flinging their poo, I tell you, based on, uhm, well, my vivid imagination of just how awful that would probably be. Another monkey seems to be bowling. Yet another is baking a pie, which I think we can all assume is a Poo-Fly Pie. Another one is driving a roadster and, uh-oh, watch out, another is slipping on a banana peel, pippa. I assume this is the drunk monkey moments after that coconut umbrella drink. Wow. The secret life of monkeys, right here, on my jammies. Who knew sleep wear could be so educational or that I could get so tipsy from one glass of wine?
Oh, true story: Several years ago, a student of mine who used to work at a zoo in the South told me about this one particular psycho orangutan in their enclosure. Seems he liked to chase and catch the squirrels that scurried about the enclosure, then bonk the poor squirrel’s head on the cement, knocking it out, and rush over to the nearby pond to dip the squirrel in the water until it revived. All so he could do it again moments later with another unsuspecting squirrel.
You know, do you really need to say “unsuspecting squirrel,” Trace? I mean, just how much do these critters suspect in general? Are they like little bushy-tailed Columbos looking at you with that one glass eye, always wanting to ask you “just one more thing” before they go? No. No. In my experience, they suspect nothing.
I mean, one assumes. One hopes. Well, one isn’t really sure, is one?
And …. I’ve just given myself the subject of my nightmare tonight.
You know, I’ve decided something. There will be more password-protected posts coming up.
Because ….. how does that one song go?
“It’s my prerogative.”
And because ….. how does that other song go?
“No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
Could make, oh, some people crazy or something. If I can be a source of frustration to people whose motives are less than honorable, who deserve to be frustrated, then I gladly take that on.
Email me for it, pippa. Be nice. I say this to lurkers I don’t know and drive-by people, mostly. My regular pips are lovely. Honestly, I’m in NO mood these days to suffer rudeness from people who demand the password. Also, this is the password that will get you access to most — not all — of the p-p posts on this site, so, you know, SCORE on that one.
There’s a post below that I decided to password-protect. Most of my regular readers have already read it. If you haven’t, you may email me for the password. Ask nicely. If I don’t give it to you, it’s either because you were impolite, in which case, I’ll tell you, or I suspect you are one of the people I don’t want reading it.
I’m not going to explain this move. I’m just tired. Most people who read here will get it. I wussed out on this one, I guess, but I need to right now.
Someone Googled “childhood enmeshment” and it brought them to this post? Okay.
Well, let’s re-post it. Why not? All other drama camp posts here.
Originally posted July 2005.
“If You Can’t Act, Behave!”
Can I say this? I rather dread the first day of drama camp.
And today was the first day of drama camp.
There’s always far too much drahhma.
There’s always The Poor, Fretful Chile who didn’t choose camp; it was chosen for her. Not sure which one she is? Oh, well, she’s the one coming unglued over in the corner. And is that her mother with her, consoling her? Nope, that’s me, trying to brainwash this child into believing that “drama camp will be fun, fun, fun and it’s just the ticket for a jittery kid like you!!”
Then there’s always The Bratty Boy; the boy that says, “Ewww. There aren’t any boys at this camp, only girls. Ewwww. I don’t wanna do this. Ewwww. This SUCKS.” So where is Bratty Boy now? Oh, he’s lying down over there in another corner. Guess he’s just plumb tuckered out from all that participatin’ he’s doin’. Or he’s drunk. Frankly, I’d rather he lie there with the DTs than bother the rest of camp.
Then there’s always The Little Girl in Floozy Makeup, the one whose naturally beautiful, shining face has been frosted and glossed and rouged past innocence into a macabre Pretty Baby rainbow. So where is our little rainbow now? Well, I wish I could say she was in the bathroom with a washcloth, making the world right again, but, alas, she’s loudly centerstage, frosty and glossy and rougey.
Of course, there’s always The Parent Who Never Leaves, the one who can’t separate or won’t separate or won’t let the child separate or some other combination of raging parent/child emeshment. Interesting. It’s usually the little rainbow’s mom.
Then there’s always The Parent Who Treats You Like A Babysitter: “See this stuff here? Well, that’s Baby’s overnight bag. She’s spending the night with Lulu, so can you see that Lulu’s mom gets this stuff, hmmm? And (eyeing our Goldfish and pretzels suspiciously) these are Baby’s special snack-ums. I want her to have some healthy snacks, so can you please give her these Salmon-Crusted Wheat Germy Soy Sticks, hmmm?” Interesting. It’s usually the mom of the sickliest looking kid at camp.
Then there’s always, always The Parent Who Cross-Examines You About Why Little Blandranelle Didn’t Get The Part She Desperately Wanted — And Do You Know She Cried All Day and All Night, Too?!
But then, ah, then, there’s always The Boy Who’s My Hero, the one who is sure enough about his emerging masculinity that he can go to football camp or baseball camp or basketball camp and STILL come to drama camp. And where is this boy, you ask? Well, he’s the one onstage right now, fearlessly leading the charge before all the other boys and getting up to audition, opinions be damned.
Finally, perhaps best of all, there’s always The Kid With Grace, the truly talented one who didn’t get the part she’d hoped for, because, much as you’d like, you can’t give every kid the lead, can’t make every theatre dream come true. So where can one find this Kid With Grace? Well, she’s the one on the phone with me now, listening as I offer her the choice of two other parts, neither the part, but still oh-so-important. And she’s the one hiding her disappointment with a poise belying her tender years. And she’s the one who breaks your heart when, again, you ask which part she prefers and she says, “Well, which choice would make it easier for YOU to do the best possible show? That’s the part I want.”
Come to think of it, dread is not the right word. Not the right word at all.
Oh, dear. He’s back.
Yes, we were at church on Sunday. We have unfinished business. We are, you know, making people offers they can’t refuse and whatnot.
The problem is I may be slightly addicted to this particular little sideshow. Part of me is enjoying a bit too much being on the fringe of this church, doing my research on it, and seeing that what I read is totally true Sunday after Sunday. Something IS rotten in the state of Denmark. But something is rotten with me because it’s all I can do not to waltz into this place with a bag of popcorn every Sunday.
Or, you know, burst into tears.
I was sitting alone for a few moments before the service started Sunday. Most people seem to drag in late during worship, so the place was basically empty. Out of nowhere — and I still don’t know how he does this — Perky Bob appeared and plopped down in the row in front of me.
“Hey, Bob, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m great! I just got back from Maryland, seeing my grandkids!”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Yeah. I don’t wanna brag but my new baby grandson puts the Gerber Baby to shame.”
“Aww. I’m sure he does. Sounds like you had a great time.”
“Yeah! So … what about you? Do you have grandkids?”
Excuse me? Do I have GRANDKIDS??? Uhm, I’m sorry, I can’t answer that because I need to go slit my wrists if you think I look old enough to have GRANDKIDS.
No, but, guess what, Perky Bob, my arteries are now instantly hardening and sudden glaucoma is taking my sight and I feel the imminence of a tragic and unholy urinary incontinence.
Good GOD. Just ask me to lunch instead.
“Uh, no,” I said, “no, I don’t.”
No, Perky Bob. It’s not okay. And unless I know that you have to clean the pee stain I just left on the pew cushion, it will NEVER BE OKAY AGAIN.
I’m having some weird technical difficulties, pippa. My internet access is spotty!
Back when I figure this out.
HE: (irritated) He acted like the ultimate goal in communication would be to GET to “Hey.” Yeah. If I ever see his ass in heaven, I’m gonna be all, “Hey.”
I love that man.
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