The American Dream

As we get into the thick of tech week, I have always thought it important to have something for the kids to do backstage to keep them busy on the long days.  When I was young, my mother used to buy me shoe boxes full of beads, and elastic thread to keep me and the other child performers busy making bracelets and necklaces for each other and the adult cast mates.

Sydney came home from a party with rubber band bracelets and I immediately needed to get the stuff to make these.  We traipsed to Michaels and, along with another family looking for the same thing, bought two Rainbow Looms, one for each kid.

They brought them to rehearsal, and actually managed to talk one of the other child cast members into getting HER mother to buy her one.  So, a sweatshop-type assembly line began backstage during the sitzprobe.  As the evening went on, I began to see random cast members come out from the wings with the bracelets snaking up their arms.

At the end of the evening, on our way out the door, people who had never given the children a second glance were calling out their goodbyes to them.  They were all mini rock stars.  I asked them about it in the car, and they both excitedly told me that cast members were putting in their color orders.  Then, this conversation happened:

Me: That’s great that you’re making these for everyone.

Sydney: Yup.  Today they’re free.  Tomorrow, they cost a dollar.  Special ones like holiday colors will cost $1.50.

Me: so, what you mean to say is that you are hooking people on these with free samples, and subsequent ones will cost them?

Sydney: Yup.

Me: So….you’re like a meth dealer?

Sydney: Huh?

Me: Never mind.  GREAT entrepreneurship, Syd!  I’m proud of you.

My kid’s a dealer. 

Then, the next evening, I went backstage to check on their growing sweatshop, only to find an adult cast member working on the Rainbow Loom, patiently weaving bracelets. 

Me (to Sydney): How come she's making a bracelet?

Sydney: Outsourcing.

How do you argue with that?

The Verbiage of Ragtime

There are many times that I forget that I am the mother of young children.  My kids interact with adults more than other kids, and as they spend more and more time in a theater, they are exposed to more and more adult concepts and attitudes.  That doesn't both me, and we've had plenty of conversations about the responsibilities that they have as child performers working with older people. 

For example, when we started working on Ragtime, I explained to them that they’ll be working with college students who aren't used to being around younger children, and often they’ll use colorful language that they might not hear at their regular theater studio.

Sydney’s response, “That’s ok, Mom.  We live with you.”

Hmmmm…….

I also forget that at their ages, they haven’t been exposed to the historical significance of the stories in Ragtime.  We are a very liberal family, and our friend and family base is comprised of people of all socio-economic brackets, religions, races, sexual orientations, and whatever else.  It’s never been an issue, it just is what it is.  So, imagine my surprise at the following conversation in the car on the way home from rehearsal one evening:

Me: How did rehearsal go?

Sydney: Good

Dylan: Good.  I was hanging out with the funny Negro guy.

Me: (trying not to drive off the road): WHAT??!!??

Dylan: you know, the funny Negro guy who always makes the jokes.

Me: Ok, let’s talk about this….

Because of the verbiage in the script, the African-American/black characters are referred to as “Negro” since this takes place in 1906.  Since Dylan had never heard this word, and it is thrown around very nonchalantly, imagine his surprise to learn that we don’t use that word, he can’t use that word outside the walls of the theater for this particular show, and that it’s considered a bad word today.

He was so confused.  Then, he got really upset because he didn't want the “funny Negro guy” to think he was being rude.

I assured him that it would be ok.  I guess I should have pre-taught this one a little better.  I’m just glad we caught this one before I got a call from school, or Dylan got a black eye.

I Wish I Could Go Back to College

After the family saw the musical Matilda this summer in New York, both children were completely fired up about their participation in the theatre world.  They decided that they were ready for Broadway.  I, on the other hand, wanted to take smaller steps.  When the audition notice for the local community college, Fullerton College, came out, the kids were overjoyed that their centennial production would be Ragtime.

They figured that since there was a young boy, and a young girl in the show, that would be the parts for them.

Here was my thought…let’s try auditioning for this, since it’s a bigger production, and could possibly be a different experience for them, but I also tried to explain to them that neither of them were right for the parts: Sydney was too grown up for Little Girl and Dylan was too little for Little Boy.  But, they didn’t care, and off we went to the audition.  I was secretly hoping that they would be told “no,” something that they don’t often hear at their studio.  I also kind of wanted their egos to have a bit of a check, and I felt confident that even though they both had nice, solid auditions, they wouldn’t be cast, since the show usually only casts those two particular child roles.

And….they were cast.  As Italian immigrants.  And they both wanted to do the show.

Then the other shoe dropped.  Since it was a college production, they both had to enroll in the musical theatre course (for insurance purposes) at Fullerton.

My 7-year-old son and 11-year-old daughter were going to be college students.  Now perhaps this is the dream of many parents, but let me just tell you what a gigantic pain in the ass it is to register your young children for college in 28 simple steps:

1. You have to hunt down the appropriate paperwork from the college.
2. You can’t fill in the online application that the college requires because they’re both under 13.
3. You have to have paperwork signed by their school principal.
4. The principal happens to sign on the wrong lines.
5. You have to race to admissions after work one day, park in Guam, and schlep to their office on the hottest day of the past two months.
6. When it’s your turn, you are given two paper applications that you have to fill out while being given the stink eye by other students standing in line behind you.
7. With 30 minutes left before the office closes, you have to go to the college counseling office for their signatures.
8. Then, you cross campus to the Fine Arts Building to get the Dean of Fine Arts signature.
9. The dean is gone for the day at 3:30 on a Thursday and will not be in on Friday afternoon when you can get back (which happens to be the last day to register for this class).
10. You cry. Literally.  Then you get mad at yourself for crying and looking like an idiot.
11. The Theatre chair takes your paperwork and promises to get the signature the next day.
12. You run back to the college the next day, park in Guam, and pick up the now signed paperwork.
13. You stand in line again with all of the other poor fools who are also trying to get all of their paperwork done on the last day.
14. You get it turned in and you receive their student ID numbers and their ADD codes.
15. You run home and register them for the class online.
16. The damn system charges you for Dylan’s registration, but doesn't charge you for Sydney’s registration, causing you to have a heart attack thinking that she’s going to be kicked out of the show.
17. You go back to admissions again on Monday, still parking in Guam, only to argue with the clerk that you DO want to pay, that it’s not letting you….PLEASE take my money. They are CLEARLY not used to this side of the argument.
18. You get this straightened out and ask where to pick up the parking permit that you ordered.
19. You are told to go to campus safety, but they will only give it to Sydney (who’s account the pass was ordered on).
20. You try to explain that Sydney is 11 and will clearly not be driving herself.
21. You confuse the shit out of the clerk.
22. You leave to go to campus safety.
23. You park in a different lot, in a different country from where this office is, and walk over, with 5 minutes to spare before they close.
24. You see a 10-minute spot open right in front of the doors of campus safety.
25. You explain your situation to the 16-year-old working the window.
26. They don’t even look at your ID as they hand you your pass.
27. Your children are now students at Fullerton College, receiving a grade and college credit for being in a show.
28. You need a drink and a Band-Aid for the blisters that you got walking all over kingdom come.

Being in college is hard, but being the parent of an under-age college student is grounds for your own sitcom.

What have I done, sweet Jesus, What have I done?

When it rains it pours.

Everything happens for a reason.

Have my cake and eat it too.

I love a good cliche. I can go on and on, but my life is turning into one giant cliche.  I want to walk around quoting The Sound of Music, "When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."

My windows are stuck open.

I do this to myself.  It makes Thomas completely nuts.

Four months ago, I was miserable at work.  Long story, but the signs were there telling me it was time to move on (cliche #1). So, I look for a new job.

After a month, and four interviews (a panel, a demo lesson, two one-on-ones with the principal) I get the job at an AMAZING school.  Fantastic!  Awesome!  I'm scared to death!  Starting over in the world of educational theatre isn't like switching classrooms.  After seven years, it really means starting over.  I'm a fish out of water (cliche #2). It means long hours as I try to build my reputation and program.  It means busting my ass to make sure that ALL productions are of the absolute highest quality on the planet.  I got this!

Then, Thomas gets accepted to graduate school.  Albeit distance learning, it means burning the midnight oil (cliche #3) on the computer, listening to lectures, writing papers, taking quizzes.  Ok, well...we're known for doing lots of big things at the same time...changing jobs, moving, going back to school...that's how we roll. (cliche #4)

When I have downtime, I start to get creative.  This either costs us a lot of money at Michaels for craft supplies, or a huge headache for the rest of the family.  I decide to get the kids more involved in performing (as per their request after seeing Matilda in NYC). By using the Breakdown Services, in the last two days, the following has happened:
1. Dylan was cast in a three-episode web series.
2. Dylan got an audition for a non-union short film.
3. Sydney got an audition that has to be filmed and submitted.
4. Tomorrow, both kids are performing at Disneyland with their theatre school.
5. #2 happens tomorrow at 4:30, meaning we have to leave Disney, run to L.A., then go back to Disney.
6. #1 happens in L.A. on Sunday.
7. Both kids have an audition for Ragtime at Fullerton College on Wednesday.

Oh yeah....I start a new job on Monday!

AND...I'm teaching at the kid's theatre studio on Wednesday evenings (I'm actually REALLY excited about this)...AND...I just received a call from Orange Coast College asking about my availability this semester in the chance of classes coming up that may need a teacher.  This is while I'm trying to finalize the rehearsal schedule for the SIX productions that I'm doing at my new school this year.

Did I mention that I start a new job this week?

Busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. (cliche #5)

Although I'm as happy a clam, counting my blessings, and reaping the benefits of my hard work, my intention was good, but I think I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal. (cliches #.....whatever, who the hell cares?)

Too Many Fish in the Sea

As summer comes to an end, the Castiglione family is trying to cram in as many summer activities as possible. Today, we went to the beach again, but this time, sans dogs, and WITH the Alcazar's, very good family friends.

We arrive at the beach, the kids frolic into the ocean, the moms dig in to old People magazines, and the two dads do this:

It stayed like that for a while.

We left after four hours, disappointed in the gray skies that had inevitably burned us, regardless of sunscreen application, came home, showered, and went to get dinner.

Upon our return home, as I was liberally applying aloe to Sydney's crispy shoulders and back, Dylan came in the bathroom to inform me that there was a dead fish on his bedroom floor.

Let me back up JUST a touch.  Dylan's life is ruled by food, which he actually uses as fuel (unlike me who merely uses it for fun).  When the fuel runs out, so does Dylan, and often in an ugly way. By the time we left the beach, he was a crying puddle of mess.  Once we got to our favorite Mexican joint for dinner, and he took a sip of his raspberry iced tea, he started talking...and didn't shut up for an hour.

So....when he told me there was a dead fish on his bedroom floor, I thought that maybe he had just lost his cotton-pickin' mind and was on a food high.  Sydney and I went to investigate.  I found this in his room:

Well, now I am freaked out, shut the door, command that the children stay out of the room, and hurry outside to find Thomas, who is walking the dogs.  I explain what happened, and Thomas starts laughing, to the point of almost wetting himself.  I explain, sternly, that it isn't funny, and what if someone has broken into our house and is leaving dead fish as a message.

Thomas, sanely, replied that more likely that not, Dylan brought the stowaway home in his bathing suit.

We went back upstairs to look, and we asked Dylan if he had felt anything in his shorts, to which he responded, "No," but it's good to know that the poor fish had a nice car ride home in order to get to his final resting place.

I then asked Dylan if he washed his butt really well when he showered, to which he responded, "YES!...well, I'm pretty sure."

Awesome.

A Note From the Teacher

Back to School Shopping.

When you're a teacher, that often means more than new shoes, a lunch box, and a sweater.  It means pimping out your classroom to blow students away on the first day of school.  When I say "pimping," I'm not exaggerating.  I believe that there is a significant amount of bandwidth on Pinterest devoted to storing the images of classroom ideas. (Try it, I dare you.)

Now granted, I teach high school, so the decor is very different from the awesome classrooms that are often created in an elementary school setting.  If I could get away with it, don't think that my own classroom wouldn't be done up with owls, beanbag chair reading centers, and cubbies.  However, being a high school teacher, I'd probably get shanked.

Regardless, I still decorate, organize, and plan for the school year, even though many teacher supply stores cater to the younger grades.  This means supplies, bulletin board stuff, tape, pens, sharpies, etc.  Most schools, well at least my school, don't have a kick ass craft room where you can go pick out butcher paper, grab some Expo markers, and maybe pick up a simple bulletin board border.  In fact, at the school I just left, there was one cabinet in the teacher work room that held our supplies.  It usually consisted of rubber bands, brown Expo markers, paper clips, and these weird behavior postcards that you could fill out and send to parents.  I'm not sure those moved in the seven years I was there.

This means that I  frequent the teacher store, Michaels, and office supply stores to spend my own money on supplies for my classroom.

With August comes the promise of "Teacher Appreciation Day" at some of the bigger chain office supply stores.  For the past ten years, I have done my research on dates and times, carefully marked my calendar, and often showed up at the stores before the doors open, usually in a line of other teachers, anxiously clutching their faculty/staff ID, crossing their fingers that they won't run out of good stuff before it's their turn.  The doors open, and it's like a designer sample sale, except for much poorer people who have not had an income for two months.

The first year I went to one of these events was 2004.  I went with my mentor teacher in Orlando, and it was like opening day at a theme park.  Every teacher received a big cardboard box, breakfast, raffle tickets, the works.  Inside that box was a label maker, a hand-crank laminator, packages of folders, boxes of pens, pencils, sticky notes, expo markers, sharpies.  It was like winning a teacher's lottery.  Talk about feeling appreciated!!

Fast forward to 2013.  Thomas is now a teacher, and today's date has been on the calendar for weeks.  We got up early, ensconced the kids with a movie, threatened to kill them if they opened the door or answered the phone, and trotted off to Staples, hand-in-hand, excited about the goodies that we might find through the doors.

We walk in, and it seems like business as usual.  We wander around the store for a few minutes, looking for the fanfare, and there was not a streamer, balloon, or banner in sight.  We ask an associate about the teacher event, and he says, "You might want to check at the customer service desk."  Back up to the front, we approach the desk that is covered in brown cardboard boxes.  I get a little excited.  This is it...this is what I've been waiting for!  Thomas and I, school ID's in hand, anxious smiles on our faces, approach the girl at the counter.  She brightly smiles and says, "Hi, fill this in for a drawing for a free calendar, and here's your gift."  She handed us this:

This is a reusable shopping bag.

This is what was in it:

I'm not kidding.  This was the ONLY thing that was in it.  A useless calendar that no teacher would ever be able to use to actually do any planning in, and it was copied in their copy center with a blue paper back page.

Really?

Maybe there was something in the back of the store.  We wandered around, thinking that the breakfast was in the back.  No breakfast. We looked at some of the "great deals" that were touted on the website, only to wind up in a discussion about whether or not we should get the one-subject spiral notebooks that both Thomas and I use in our classrooms for journals at Staples, where they were .50 a piece (times 150-ish students) or go to Wal-Mart where they're less per piece.  You people KNOW how much I hate Wal-Mart.

We left, purchasing only a pack of golf pencils (Thomas gives them to students who neglect to bring a writing utensil to class....AFTER he asked me if he was being a dick for giving them crappy pencils.  To which I responded, "Not when these golf pencils are $8 a box! They're lucky you give them anything"), and five packages of notebook paper for the house.

I left sad, and a little deflated.  I know, everyone likes free stuff, and I should be grateful for what I received, but I think this was more than that.  I love what I do, and I don't mind spending my money for stuff for my job.  I just felt like a big chain like Staples, that clearly makes LOTS of money off of teachers, could maybe help us out, throw us a bone, give us an incentive to shop there rather than other stores.  It just reminded me that teachers today spend more time apologizing for things that are out of their control (testing, lack of desk, lack of materials, lack of funding for continuing education, blah, blah, blah) rather than what they want to be doing--working with kids.

You know what, I don't care what Staples thinks, or what some dude on Capitol Hill who has never taught a day in his life thinks. I care about being able to be a part of kids lives, and to hopefully make an impact on some of them, the way some of my own teachers did to me.  With or without the big pretty pack of Sharpies.

Well it's been a long, been a long, been a long, been a lllooooonnnngggday.

We've all had those days. The days that make us cranky for no good reason what-so-ever. 

I have a lot of those days. I don't like being in a bad mood, but it happens frequently. Thomas is an angel, or a martyr (whichever you want) for putting up with me the way he does, and he often has a series of basic questions that he asks when he notices that I'm a little off.

T: (hesitantly) Are you ok?

S: (hissing) yes

T: Are you hungry?

S: Why do you ALWAY ask if I'm hungry if you think that I'm in a bad mood!!!

T: When is your period supposed to start?

S: Not for two weeks, thank you very much...smart ass.

T: (to himself) hmmm.....that's too far away, that can't be it.

S: I can HEAR you, you know! I'm not deaf!!!

T: (with a wee smile) You know, you're kind of funny when you're upset.

S: fkjnsksjnekrjtnkdjvnscvjnerogjneofvjnoj!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We have that conversation on a regular basis, which is why I'm able to script it so elegantly.

Today was one of those days. Those days that you want to kick people as you pass and just want to be left alone. Regardless of the fact that I had a day filled with fun and relaxing activities, I was PISSY!

The kids are in tech for Hairspray, and I always volunteer backstage to help with hair and makeup. However, within thirty minutes of being in the green room, I had had my fill of the having the following conversation numerous times:

Kid: "Can you help me with my hair?"

Me: "Yes, where is your brush?"

Kid: "I don't have one."

Me: " Bobby pins?"

Kid: "I don't have any."

Me: "hairspray?"

Kid: "No"

Me: "You need more eyeliner."

Kid: "I don't have any."

It was time to take a walk.

I walked....slowly....down the street to Starbucks.  I go to order a drink and perhaps a little snack. I reach for my wallet only to remember that the ID holder part is in my glove box. Don't ask. I stop the barista and say, "You know what? Just the drink. I'll pay cash."

Jose, the barista, says, "Ok, that'll be $3.45. I bought you the drink, so you just have to pay for the pastry."

I almost fell on the floor. I gushed embarrassingly over the poor boy, so I think he may have paid for my drink to get me the hell out of his store.

The kid made my day. He doesn't know me. He's never seen me before. He doesn't know that I was in a lousy mood. He was just being nice.

I went back to rehearsal a little lighter and a bit more relaxed.  

Thanks, Jose, for restoring a little bit of my faith in human-kind, and saving my poor husband from the she-devil who may have come home tonight. 

Me Against the...??

It's that time of year again.  The time of year that I dread.  Not school shopping, not family reunions, not car maintenance, not my yearly attempt to walk around the block in an attempt to exercise.

It's far worse than that....it's Thomas's out-of-town conference.  This leaves me at home...alone...with this:

This is everyone...except Chompers, the bearded dragon.  More on him later.

We are all VERY well aware that I would make the most abysmal single parent.  I truly believe that Thomas coincidentally needs to go out of town, by himself, once a year to ensure his proper title of "President of Keeping Mommy's Shit Together."

Inevitably, like Murphy's Law (which I often humbly refer to ) some weird stuff will happen that is either out of the norm, or Thomas is just really good at dealing with on a regular basis (most likely the latter).

I am a terrible cook.  I'm a REALLY good baker, but I cannot cook.  If any of you compare this to my own mother's cooking, I'm going to shank you.

So, in preparation for Thomas being gone for four days, I loaded my fridge with ready-made wraps and salads from Trader Joe's.  In my excitement on non-cooking, I guess I should have asked the kids if this is what they wanted, because apparently my selection resulted in the faces you see in the photo above.  They immediately asked for cheeseburgers.  The last time I microwaved the cheeseburgers from Costco, the bread turned into bricks.  When I threatened that...they said it was better than some of the alternatives.

I'm deadening my children's tastebuds!  CRAP!  Now what?  They'd rather have cardboard cheeseburgers than some of my other choices?  They MUST be bad!

This is also the week that Dylan came down with his first cold in 9 months.  Of course.  He feels like poop, and has turned into a cranky mouth-breather.

This means no swimming, bike-riding, and all the other activities put into place so that my children do not tear each other limb from limb.  Excellent.  They are now movie-watching couch potatoes...in separate rooms, with me running interference.  Mom of the year here!

The animals.

My normal duties do not include animal care.  If you remember my article from last year, I swore that I would never ask for another animal again.  Thomas is the animal guy, and while I usually deal with the children and lunch (I can make a mean peanut butter and jelly), Thomas is the animal and dinner dude.

So far, in two days:
-Lenox cleaned the cat litter box for me...with his mouth.  Then came to me with a beard full of litter, smiling.

-I had to feed Chompers, the cranky bearded dragon.  Envision this...10pm, after rehearsal, putting kids to bed when I realize that I haven't fed the prehistoric darling yet.  Now picture me trying to swiftly open the enclosure door and flinging lettuce in and trying to shut the glass before he eats us.

-Isabel, the cat with dementia who is still howling all night long, eats her breakfast in peace, then climbs onto one of only four pieces of furniture in the house with fabric on it, and projectile pukes up said breakfast all over that chair AND the carpet.

-Joseph, the rat (Dylan's last birthday present) decided to chew on my finger rather than the pellet I was trying to hand him.  Nice, rat, bite the hand that feeds you.  To which Dylan responds, "Hmm, he doesn't do that to me.  Maybe he likes me more."

-Holly likes to talk.  By talk I mean sing. By sing, I mean howling at my head at 6:30 in the morning...in the summer.

-Plus, these animals are in such a routine, thanks to my tad-OCD husband, that ALL animals look at me like I have a mental deficiency...because I am CLEARLY not doing things "the way Daddy does."

WELL...DADDY'S NOT HERE, DAMMIT!

So, we're on day two.  I'm behaving as if it's day 47.  Day starts at 6:30, and since the kids are in rehearsals for Hairspray, we're not coming home until 9:30, at which point the whole animal process has to start again.  After two walks, feeding, cleaning, whatever, it's now too late for even a glass of wine, which means I flop into bed, careful not to disturb Dylan, who has been planning a sleepover with me for weeks and watch a little Rizzoli & Isles.  I don't normally sleep very well when Thomas is out of town, but that is exacerbated by a small human who manages to take up and entire king-sized bed.  And...he coughs in his sleep...in my face.

On a brighter note, the guinea pigs haven't pissed me off yet.

Help me Obi-Wan Thomas, you're my only hope!  Come home soon! We miss you!

The State of the Arts

I am a theatre nerd.  I have been a theatre nerd my entire life.  I am raising a family of theatre nerds.  We sit in the car, listening to the Sirius XM Broadway channel, quizzing ourselves:

"What show is this from?"
"Who's singing this song?"
"Is this the original or a revival?"

My children have literally grown up in theaters.  Because of this, I am often approached by strangers who compliment me and my children on their theatre etiquette.  As I secretly gloat that I am CLEARLY raising a stellar set of human beings, I would often be surprised.  Not because of anything in particular, only that they're not statues, they're still kids.

However, I HAVE seen the difference in my kids with others on a larger scale.  A year ago, our family traipsed to Angel Stadium to see a baseball game in which Thomas's school's baseball team was being honored.  Here is a snippet of conversation that occurred while we were there:

"Mom, this is JUST like Damn Yankees!"
"Um....Dad, why are people talking and laughing and not paying attention.  Aren't we supposed to sit and watch?"
"Mom...Dad....I can't hear their lines."

Yup, that's how we roll.

THEN, we went to New York.  Like any good theatre nerd, I purchased my tickets for our choice shows BEFORE the TONY nominations came out, knowing that the prices would go up, and availability would go down.  The two shows, Cinderella and Matilda, were going to be Dylan and my niece Madison's very first Broadway shows, and let's face it, I was so excited about Matilda that I thought I may wet my pants.

But, I guess I missed the memo.  Theatre has turned into a ballgame.

Upon arrival at The Broadway Theater for Cinderella, we took our seats when I noticed an usher walking the aisles with a "hawking tray" around his neck loaded up with candy and chips.  I actually ended up in a conversation with the woman next to me about how weird that was, and maybe they were doing this because it was a "family friendly" show.  Weird.

The show started, and I swear to God, no one would sit the fuck still. People jostled, people moved seats, the lady behind me answered her PHONE!  I really thought I was going to kill someone.  I tried to calm myself down, because let's face it, we all know I'm a little high strung when it comes to my over-inflated expectations of society.

We went to the backstage door, which was the HIGHLIGHT of the evening!

 Ann Harada as the Stepsister Charlotte

Laura Osnes as Cinderella

THEN, it was the night for MATILDA!!!  I have be stupidly excited about this show for months, watching every YouTube video I could get my hands on.  I spent an OBSCENE amount of money on these tickets, and the show was at the Shubert Theater, one of my favorites.

We cleaned out the souvenir kiosk, then found our seats in the orchestra level....right behind the family from HELL.

Two parents, three kids under the age of ten, and English was not the language they were speaking to each other.  Not that this was a big deal, but the temper tantrum that the oldest, a boy who was WAY too old to be having a temper tantrum in a Broadway theater was having over which seat he was going to sit in, was.

They played musical seats for a solid twenty minutes before the show started, prompting my 6-year-old niece to look at my sister-in-law and say, "SHEESH!"

THEN, the sugar-peddling usher with the candy box of doom came past.  Apparently, this is a phenomenon on Broadway that I am NOT familiar with, nor OK with.  When I worked at the Shaftesbury Theater in London, we, as ushers, hawked snacks as well, but the Brits seem to understand manners when it comes to snacking in a theater...just saying.

This charming family proceeded to buy one of everything from the usher, a poor kid who was clearly oblivious as to what was inevitably going to happen.  Everyone around this family stared...all clearly having the same thought, "They're going to open all of that during the show."

I was right.

Not only did they rip open and pass around all of their snacks, but the kids refused to sit still, or STFU as well, prompting me to lean forward THREE times to ask them to be quiet.

The little boy had a coughing fit (he was now ensconced in the chair right in front of me) which made him fart.  That was awesome.  He and his mother would have lots of little conversations which promptly caused me to accidentally kick their chairs.

After the third time I asked them to be quiet (with the people in front of them giving plenty of stink eye as well), the father...four people down, turns to my family and says, "Please, please...."

PLEASE, WHAT???  Mother$%&*er????  Please let me allow your incredibly rude family to destroy a night that I paid an arm and a leg for and have been as excited about as the birth of my own children??  You have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

This was only the first act.

Intermission comes, and Thomas takes the kids to the bathroom, leaving me with my brother, and this nut-job family who stands to stretch their legs, staring at me the whole time like I'm going to eat them.

Second act.  Second act starts and it's musical chairs again.  They settle down a bit, but every time someone from my family laughed at something on stage, one of the children from said charming examples of everything that is wrong with society, would turn around and stare at one of us, prompting us to give them a death stare that could rival Medusa.  Once the lights came up, I have never seen 5 people move so fast to get out of somewhere.  

I think they thought I was going to shank them.  

I might have if they had stayed around long enough. 

"Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty." -Matilda

The good news is that this did NOT stop us from loving every second of the show.  Many times, I'm done with a show 2/3 of the way through and start thinking about the next one.  This one...I didn't want it to end.  It was brilliant.  I'm not going to wax on and on about it, because that's a different story.  

One of the greatest nights of theatre...and some of the worst behavior I have ever seen.  If this is the way that society is going, I now understand why people compliment me on my children's behavior. 

For it's ONE, TWO, THREE strikes your out at the old Shu-bert....er....ball-game!

Here Come Da Judge

A few weeks before my musical this year, Guys and Dolls, opened, I received a jury summons.  I know, I know...I could have postponed it, but let's be real.  We all know me.  We all know that had I postponed it, the dates would have fallen during our planned family trip to Washington D.C.  Plus, it was a call in jury summons, so the chances of me having to go in were slim....right?

Sunday night.  Show closed the night before, I can breathe.  I call in.  Don't have to go. Breathe a sigh of relief.

Monday night.  Call in.  Have to check in at the court house at 8 am the NEXT day.  DAMMIT!  Call for a sub.  Create B.S. sub plans, text students about rehearsals (we're leaving for State Competition the next week) and find something grown-up to wear.  It'll be OK, right?

Tuesday morning.  We're in the jury room for all of an hour when we're ALL called to a courtroom.  Sit in the gallery for 35 seconds until my name is called to go to the jury box.  Well, now I'm screwed.  I KNOW that now that I'm there, I'm going to be stuck.  Courts LOVE teachers.  I am bound and determined to keep my mouth shut and not be funny or witty (as I apparently was LAST time...long story) and hope to not be picked.  People are being excused left and right...but NOT ME!  By 4pm, I'm the newly minted Juror Number 10.  NO other teachers.  I guess they all postponed.  Crap.

Wednesday morning.  Before we start the judge addresses the jury with something like this:

"Ladies and gentlemen.  I am going to assume that you being here is a financial hardship.  I'm going to assume that you are ALSO the only person in the WORLD who can do your job, and without you there, the nincompoops (how DO you spell that??) will sit there drooling and running your business into the ground, and it will all fall apart.  I get it."

I laugh.

Karma will poop on your head.

We break, and I head out to the hallway and check my phone, which by now has exploded with texts and missed calls.  Long story short.  While the judge was waxing poetic about out jobs, two students (a guy and a girl, both in my advanced class, scene partners for our upcoming 4-day trip to CA State Thespian Festival) get into a physical altercation, one gets hit (the boy) and a chair gets thrown.  THEN, another student rehearses their piece, stands on a chair, and the chair basically disintegrates underneath them, leaving a mangled pile of metal, and the poor sub it probably traumatized forever.

I guess the judge was right.

I spend the next five days listening to this case.  Nutshell: 25-year-old boy. 15-year-old meth head brother.  15-year-old's daughter was born the night before.  Both boys drinking in the garage at 9 in the morning.  Older brother tells younger brother to clean up his act.  Younger brother gets pissed and gets in older brothers face, so older brother clobbers younger brother with a baseball bat.

This was TWO years ago.  Little brother testified for the defense.  Mother of the boys slept in the courtroom the whole time.  No one wanted to be there, but we had to look at black-and-white.  Did younger brother deserve the beat-down.  Hell, I wanted to kick his ass.  I guess it worked, since he looks like he'd cleaned up his act since then.

Monday afternoon.  Both sides have rested.  We go to the deliberation room.  Yours truly is named the foreman. We talk for thirty whole minutes when the bailiff comes in and says we have to leave for the day, come back tomorrow.  We beg for another 30 minutes, but to no avail.

Tuesday morning.  9:30am.  In the jury room. 10am.  We're done.  SEE!!!! WE TOLD YOU!  10:45am.  I'm done and in my car.  A whole day wasted.

Well, we found him guilty on all charges.  None of us wanted to, but he admitted to hitting brother with the bat, so there really wasn't a lot we could do.  We all just hoped the judge wasn't too hard on him at sentencing.

Wednesday morning.  Back at school, girl who hit guy back from her suspension, broken chair taken out to the dumpster, kids separated from each other.  Life goes on.

The whole time I was in the courtroom, though, I was waiting for sounds from my favorite shows; the "doink-doink" of Law and Order and the old bailiff from My Cousin Vinny: "All rise as the judge leaves."

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

This is my dog, Lenox.


I adopted Lenox from a shelter in Florida in 2000.  He was a puppy, probably under a year old, and he was first dog that I picked out.  He's the most handsome dog in the world.

My father has always said he's the ugliest dog on the planet, but I know he says that so as not to show favorites to his other "grand dogs."

Lenox is ALWAYS by my side, except when it's time to eat.  At that point, he likes Thomas for those few minutes.


A week ago, he peed in the house...twice.  Now, he's done this before, but in a spiteful way, mostly to show Holly (our new dog) who's boss.  Once, while we were all playing on the floor, he became jealous that I was petting Holly, and he peed on me.  I suppose I should be flattered, that he was marking me as his territory, but I was pissed (no pun intended) instead.


Worried that he had a bladder infection, I took him to the vet.  Turns out that he had a bladder stone and would require surgery.  Now, he's no spring chicken, but he's in remarkably good health for a dog his age.  We decided that while he was under, he'd get a cyst removed from his eye.  They asked us if we wanted a dental, but let's be honest...look at that face!!  He's actually lost two bottom teeth recently, and we were afraid he'd lose more.

We take Lenox to the vet on Thursday morning, and hand the poor shaking puppy over.  I'm just as traumatized as he is, but we leave since I have to run to the dentist.

Thomas takes the kids home to play outside, since it has finally stopped raining.  I'm not home for ten minutes, when Sydney comes into the house to proclaim, "Dylan is hurt-again."  Dylan comes in crying.  I go to see him, and he's holding his arm. I tell him that we have to take his long-sleeved t-shirt off so I can see, and he SCREAMS!  I get the shirt off (carefully) and notice a strange angle to his elbow, at which point I turn to Thomas and say, "I guess we're breaking in the new insurance cards today." (we just switched insurance THREE days prior).  Turns out that while kicking the soccer ball on our street, a street that desperately needs to be re-paved (AND we'd already mentioned it to the HOA in previous meetings) Dylan  slipped on loose gravel, went backwards, and tried to catch himself...on his elbow.

I take Dylan to the Emergency Room, telling Thomas and Sydney that I'd be in touch.  As soon as the nurse at the ER sees Dylan's arm, she comes around with a sling, rushes through vitals and gets us back to X-ray.  This was NOT Dylan's favorite part.  Once that was done, they wheeled him into the waiting room, where spent, he fell asleep.

Thomas and Sydney showed up a few minutes later with juice and a snack for Dylan, who was looking mighty pale.  As Dylan sipped his Capri-Sun, Thomas filled me in on Lenox.  He had come through surgery really well, and could be picked up that afternoon.  Something told me that Thomas was holding back, and when pressed, he finally came clean, "They did the dental.  His bottom teeth are now gone."  I start to cry.

At that VERY moment, the Physicians Assistant comes out and says to me, "May I please speak with you in here?"  I follow her into a consultation room, where she tells me, "Your son has fractured his elbow and will need to have surgery."  DAMMIT!  Then, she says, "When is the last time he ate?"

SHIT.  "Thirty seconds ago?" is my meek response.

"Shit," she says.

"Shit!" I say, "I am SO sorry!  I wasn't even thinking it could be something this bad."

So, we get put into an ER room and Dylan gets started on Morphine.  Morphine and The Cartoon Network.  I can only imagine how triply THAT experience was.  I sent Thomas and Sydney home wit ha list of things to bring back.  Thomas goes home and packs, comes back to the hospital, drops stuff off, leaves with Sydney to go pick Lenox up from the vet, take Sydney to rehearsal, take the dog home and deal with him, then come back to the hospital.

He gets back, and we are finally in a ped's room, waiting for his surgery.  We have this hilarious nurse who is trying to joke with Dylan, who merely stares at her as if she was a speaking cat.

At 8:30, we are taken to pre-op, in this brand new state-of-the-art hospital.  While the input nurse is typing on the computer, she says, "Call in-house pharmacy." I get up, confused, and start looking around for a phone, when her shoulder talks back, "Calling in-house pharmacy." The radio/phone thingie she is talking to confirms some stuff, and moments later we hear a crash.  The whole place is wired with those bank vacuum-things that suck stuff all over the place.  It was delivering Dylan's medication.  SO COOL!

They take a VERY loopy Dylan to surgery at 9pm, and my midnight we are back in his room, and he is trying to climb out of bed.  He finally settles down and sleeps.

Of course, sleeping in the hospital is like sleeping on an airplane...impossible.  Every 35 minutes, Dylan's IV would beep, a nurse would come in, or Dylan would try to turn over, causing me to leap from the parent bed/couch thingie provided to make sure that he's not flinging this incredibly heavy armpit to finger soft cast that he is now sporting.

The next morning brought me a ravenous and still loopy little boy who wanted, "toasty-toast-toast" and "eggy-egg-eggs" while watching Green Lantern cartoons. The doctor comes in and says that because he has pins sticking OUT OF HIS ARM (cue gagging sounds from me), he has to be careful of bumping into anything.  Once the arm has healed, they will PULL THE %&*$ING PINS OUT THROUGH HIS SKIN (more gagging) and put a hard cast on...for up to a few MONTHS!!! dfdlkhsdkjasdlasdlkfhsadlfhasdlkfhasnxcmai  (that's pretty much what I said) as I realized that this athletic, very energetic boy has to sit on his keister for two months.  No soccer this season, no swim team until the summer, no tetherball........again- dfhsdaldkfhalsdkjfsldkfjasdlkfjas. Oh yeah, and he can't go to school this week...the first week back from Christmas Break....which means Mama can't go back to work...which means that rehearsals have to be dealt with, and by the time I go back, I'll have been off for a MONTH.

We are home and learning all sorts of new things.  How to cut shirts so they fit, how to dress in pants that you can get off to go to the bathroom by yourself, how to prop up your arm with pillow, how to watch Treasure Buddies for the 47th time without wanting to slam our head against a hard surface.

I swear, you can't make this up.