Category: etc.

I’m back.

So …. did you all have a good Christmas?

I’ll be posting for real later today, hopefully. There’s some icky plague floating around the house here that I’m trying hard to dodge. Stupid icky plague.

Years ago, I was in a local repertory theatre’s production of “A Christmas Carol.” It was a small cozy cast and we each played a couple of roles in the show. One of my parts was Belle, Scrooge’s long-lost love. At one point, the Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge his heart-wrenching farewell scene with Belle from years ago where she tells him that he is changed now, that a golden idol has displaced his love for her, that Gain has become his master passion, that she releases him from their agreement to marry. Blahdie blah. She actually kinda lets him have it. Nicely, but still. After that, Scrooge is shown another brief scene of his lost love, the scene causing this random flashback. Belle is now married, surrounded by a throng of noisy children, happy in her loud and crowded life. Her husband enters and is instantly mobbed by his delighted feral children. Finally, he turns to Belle and this is the scene as we had it in our show — basically, straight from Dickens:

“Belle, I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.”

“Who was it?”

“Guess!”

“Tut, don’t I know! Mr Scrooge.”

Now, they are laughing, smiling, as if there is some private — but not unkind — joke between them about old Mr. Scrooge.

So that’s the scene. Those were my lines in that short short scene. I was supposed to say, “Who was it?” and I was supposed to say, “Tut, don’t I know! Mr. Scrooge.”

Not hard, right? Really really not hard. I’m not talking about the nuances of that short scene; that’s a separate thing. I simply mean that those are not hard words to get out of one’s mouth correctly. As a matter of fact, I had no problem at all with “Who was it?” I nailed it every time. I also had no problem with “Mr. Scrooge” there at the end.

But at some pivotal point during rehearsals, the line “Tut, don’t I know!” became the bane of my existence. The angel of death. The worst line that anybody anywhere ever had to say. Worse than when Leonardo DeCaprio bellowed ridiculously “I’m the king of the world!” to a cold and callous Atlantic Ocean. I felt pretty bad for him then, but not as bad as I felt for myself when “Tut, don’t I know” started tightening its hideous vise grip on my psyche. I don’t remember how it happened, exactly, but I began to have complete and utter dyslexia about these four little words and at this pivotal fatal rehearsal, I blurted out in my proper British accent, displaying a staggering mastery of my craft: “Tut, I dunno!”

The scene instantly stopped. My “husband” stared at me for a brief second, then burst out laughing.

“You ‘dunno’?” he said.

“What?”

“You said, ‘Tut, I dunno!'”

“‘Tut, I dunno??’ No, I didn’t!”

It was totally unconscious. Some kind of hidden frustration coming through, obviously. I started laughing. Everyone around was laughing and repeating it, with that certain annoyed edge I’d inadvertently given it. Little did we all know that lingering over that blunder, laughing about it, repeating it would just mess with all our psyches, doing irretrievable theatrical damage. We didn’t care, though. It became THE stupid backstage joke: “So Mike, when are you adding that gobo?” “Tut, I dunno!” “Becky, where’s that candelabra?” “Tut, I dunno!” “Tess, what is the meaning of life?” “Tut, I DUNNO!!” It became the answer for nearly every question.

Now saying it like that — “Tut, I dunno” rather than “Tut, don’t I know” completely changes the nuance of the scene because Belle DOES know whom her husband is referencing. But — it shames me deeply to say this — my psyche was now ruined and I blamed myself while publicly and loudly blaming everybody else. “Tut, I dunno!” had spread like wildfire and was now part of our lexicon, our lingo, the secret shared language that every show always has. People used the accent; people changed the accent. People imitated my inflection; people changed the inflection. The possibilities of “Tut, I dunno!” were an endless comic horizon and we seemed to be deeply committed to exploring it — forever!!

But … once the show opened and real people were really watching …… oh Sweet Jesus. The vise grip that stupid phrase had on my psyche — on everyone’s psyche — was still so tight that when the moment for that line came up, the air went cold, time went backwards, genetic mutations sparked in my brain on a subatomic level. The actor playing my husband would stare at me, wild-eyed with fear. What will she say? What will she say?! What will she say?? Tut, I DUNNO!!! There was an eternal pause between his line and mine which never should have been there. And when I say “eternal” I mean eternal. The Rapture happened. The Apocalypse. The Second Coming. But “Belle” and her husband were outside of the time-space continuum whilst we waited for my pea brain to process four little words in their correct order. The white-faced look of horror on my husband’s face as he gazed down at me was no acting. It was real.

Miraculously, every night of the show, my brain fought back against mutations and time and eternity and I did manage to eke out a feeble “Tut, don’t I know!” But the line was ruined. The moment was ruined. Because although my brain finally rallied every night, we couldn’t look at each other when I said it. We simply could not. There were always ominous twinkles threatening in the corners of our eyes. The edges of our mouths twitched to hold in the shrieking laughter that was always waiting to break. Desperate to fight it, we both stared shakily at some neutral point offstage, which, of course, is what the scene is all about.

It was a warm, touching moment, rendered professionally, lemme tell ya.

Was Dickens spinning in his grave from his mistreatment at our hands?

Tut, I DUNNO!

Just a tiny picture of my old stomping grounds in college: my alma mater’s theatre. I virtually lived in this building for 4 whole years. It was home. When I had to be elsewhere, I just itched to get back. When I was there, I never wanted to leave. I have never felt this way about …. well, any other place, really. My entire LIFE was up those wide concrete steps, past those columns, hidden behind those secret brick walls. It’s ridiculous in a way; I mean, I HAD a dorm room. I had roommates over the years. But I saw that dorm room only to collapse into a deep dead sleep. And if the roommates weren’t in the theatre program with me, I saw them, oh, maybe in the hall on the way to the bathroom or maybe at the row of sinks brushing our teeth at the same time. I was a lunatic with complete self-absorbed tunnel vision.

To this day, I can’t look at that lower right window without a lump in my throat — the office of my most beloved ornery demanding professor who died five years ago on my birthday.

I can’t look at the window on the lower left and not think of my other dear professor whose door was always open, any time, all the time. He was just there for all of us and it seemed he was available, without fail, just when you needed someone. You could always find a fellow theatre student in there, laughing, crying, freaking out about life. I mean, the door was, quite literally, always OPEN, so you’d just peek around the corner, join in whatever was going on — laughing, crying, freaking out — and if we all had a free period, dear professor would say, “Oh, c’mon. Let’s all go to lunch.” I’m not even sure something like that could happen anymore. And that’s just one of the secrets of this place. Spontaneous lunches at Red Robin with your professor and friends. Big dripping hamburgers that somehow made everything better. Don’t be fooled; magical crazy things happened inside this staid-looking building. Things that you just don’t forget. Things that — you know now, but didn’t know then — defined you. Things that linger now because, somehow, life seemed bigger back then.

Oh, you beautiful long-suffering old theatre! The things you saw, heard, endured! I will love you forever for all of it.

You were the warm refuge where I felt my very best, most open self.

Recently, I was clicking around the Internet for tee-shirts for my nephews. At 16 and 13, they’re both into that very tee-shirt intensive phase of their lives. But I found several on Threadless that even I, their fusty old aunt, really liked.

Lookit!

Uhm, I think this one’s called “There, They’re, Their.”

This one is called “Defend the Kingdom” and I am in love with it. Seriously. I am making this tee-shirt a mix tape posthaste.

“Really Exist.” Aww. Your cuddly, Velveteen Rabbit manifesto.

Hmmmm …. this reminds me of something … what is it?
Hmmm ….. well, I can only assume it’s an homage to the famously bitter protege.

“Biblical Disaster.” Uhm. Okay. So I am officially torn between two lovers here. Okey-dokey. Make that TWO mix tapes. Better get crackin’.

“Gold Rush.” I just love the old-timey look of this one. Plus, uhm, I love brown.

Gasp! Do I have yet another favorite?? Look, there are only so many mix tapes a girl can make for her insensate tee-shirt paramours.

Go over to there-they’re-their site and have some fun clicking around. Lots of other great designs for nice last-minute gifts!

Marisa has a fun post about the origins of Mrs. Claus.

If you didn’t know that she and Santa were “like two loving snowballs,” you seriously need to be enlightened, ‘kay?

From the Eiffel Tower. Beware of dizziness.

….. the winner of America’s Next Top Model ……

SALEISHA!!

I think she’s just adorable.

Even more important …. praise the Lawd we will no longer have to endure last cycle’s winner, Jaslene, gah-gah-gahing through her Cover Girl commercials with that weird Marlee-Matlin-meets-Rosie-Perez voice of hers.

So, yes. What was I saying about what’s important this time of year? Oh, uhm …. snark, that’s right.

I like to link to this story every Christmas season. I love it. Get some tissue, though.

The Christmas Mother.

How well do you know your Christmas carols?

Some of the answer possibilities are, quite frankly, lame. At least I can say I didn’t write ’em. Still, I love little quizzes like this. Plus, uhm — and boasting is SO attractive, Trace, but anything to feel good about myself right now — I got 100-non-cheating percent. I’ll say this, though: If I can get 100% on this, you guys can, too, ‘mkay?

Ready?

GO!!

Remember when I got myself into this situation? Pretending to be Santa on the phone with Piper?

Well, I’m playing Santa again this year. By request.

About a week ago, Piper drew this picture for Santa and Mrs. Claus:

(I’m dying at how she corrected her own spelling error)

Once the picture was finished, Piper wanted to send it to Santa and Mrs. C. Uhm, “right away!!” So my phone rings. My sister, asking, “Can I send you this picture and have you write Piper a letter back — from Santa?”

Me? Playing Santa again? Oh, I was ALL OVER that, Peaches.

I spent hours — HOURS — on Saturday designing Santa’s, uhm, letterhead and envelope. (Lord. I am so anal retentive.) Then I tackled the letter. Trying to “sound” like Santa. Trying to write something a 7 year old would relate to. Trying to sound like Santa saw her, knew things about her — you know, in a nice omniscient Santa way.

So here’s the final Santa letter:

That’s pretty hard to read, I imagine. Here’s what the letter says:

Dear Piper,

Thank you for the wonderful drawing. It made me so happy, I started to Ho Ho Ho! You are a talented young artist, Piper. I especially like the Christmas tree with all the colorful ornaments on it. Mrs. Claus took the picture right away and hung it on the wall in my workshop so I can enjoy it always.

My friend The Tooth Fairy tells me that she has been visiting you a lot lately and I can see that you are growing a big, bright, beautiful new smile. Your smile makes Santa smile, too! I have smiled a lot watching you play soccer this year and seeing how kind you always are to the other players.

I know you have been a very good girl this year, Piper, but then Santa knows that you are always a good girl and that makes him proud.

Be sure to be asleep early on Christmas Eve! I have some special surprises to deliver to you in my sleigh that night, but you must be sure to be sound asleep. And don’t forget …. Santa is always grateful to find milk and cookies left out for him since he has such a long long journey around the world on Christmas Eve. The love in those snacks always gives me strength.

Well, I will see you on Christmas Eve, Piper, but you won’t see me. Maybe you’ll hear the jingling of Rudolph’s Christmas bells. They’re magic, you know. (I forgot to add that to the letter, but I plan to.)

HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS, PIPER!

With love from the bottom of my bowl full of jelly,

SANTA

(Anyhoo. There it is. Oh, and didn’t you all know that Santa frequently refers to himself in the third person? I dunno. It just seemed like something he might do. I am insane. I plan to send this at the end of the week.)