Years and years ago Aunt gave Brother a set of three nesting blue and white plastic fish plates for Christmas. We know Aunt was the gift giver because Uncle doesn’t give gifts. Ever. And if he did, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have been fish plates. Of course, now that I think of it, I’m not really sure who would give someone fish plates… but I ramble. Brother was living about the world then and had no real home base so he tried to leave them with Mom. Nice try. Like she needs three nesting fish plates. We snuck them into his luggage. Little did we know what we had started - though in hindsight, we really should have. Brother is VERY competitive. The next Christmas, I got a set of plastic fish plates tucked into a box with some other gift. I can’t remember what the other gift was – finding those plates was so amusing. Thus the game of Fish Plate Tag was born. Each Christmas or birthday or random gift giving occasion, one of the three fish plates would wind up in someone’s gift. The challenge; to re-gift them to a family member some inventive way they wouldn’t expect. Since there were three of them, small, medium and large, odds were good that someone would end up with one or more of them any occasion. And, because the year is long, we would often forget that who had them last and relax and then, surprise, FISH PLATE! Once, Mom bought Brother the big fluffy down quilt he’d requested. She then packed the quilt into a massive box with a fish plate tucked in nicely between the folds. He pulled out the quilt and surprise, FISH PLATE! Tag, he was it. For my fortieth, Husband took me to Vegas. Sung in our hotel room, I unwrapped the weird octagon shaped jar that rattled given to me by Brother. I thought it was a puzzle. It was not. Surprise, FISH PLATE! Inside was a chopped up fish plate, its tiny pieces crammed tightly into a jam jar. Tag, I was it. The delivery and execution on that one was brilliant! I laughed long and hard over that one. What did I do to top that? I glued that chopped up sucker back together, put it in a decorative frame, wrapped it up and gave it to Sisinlaw as a house-warming gift. She never saw it coming – mostly because she was new to the game. And bless her heart, she actually put it up on a shelf for all to see! Sometimes the fish plate wouldn’t even be in a gift. Sometimes, someone would visit the house for the weekend and leave a fish plate somewhere. On one occasion, I found one tucked under the sheets in the guest room. One Thanksgiving, I found a fish plate in the cupboard with the good china. This game of Fish Plate tag has been going on for years. Until last Friday, I only knew where one of the plates was – the chopped up framed one. The others were in hiding. When Brother was here a few weeks ago, I mentioned the awesome puffy jacket I almost stole from him last summer. He told me that he seldom wore it and it was mine. I assumed he’d bring it with him next time he came. I was wrong. I got this package on Friday. One awesome puffy jacket and one freakin’ FISH PLATE. Tag, I’m it.
Brother has a big birthday Sunday. I have one fish plate with his name on it but I have to get it to San Francisco in some sort of gift and get him to open it. With the quick turn around and the fact that he knows I have the plate, the odds of it being a surprise are slim. I am up for the challenge. Let the games begin! Any gifting suggestions are welcome. Really. It's not cheating and I am really gonna need help on this one...
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I grew up doing children’s theatre. I’m sure some of it was bad. I’m sure some of it was funny for reasons other than the jokes in the scripts. I’m sure sometimes the director went home in tears and drank him/herself to sleep.
But that’s not what I remember. I remember it being awesome – even when it wasn’t. I remember all the times someone went up on their lines and we had to improvise on stage and, most of the time, the improvising would go horribly wrong and we’d end up in giggles. I remember when I was the wicked Queen in Snow White and the spell making me beautiful was broken and I was suddenly ugly. And my big rubber witch nose that was supposed to stay stuck to my face didn’t stick because I was a teenager and my face was greasy so down it slipped as I tried to hold it on to my face with my hand, all the while looking displeased and apologetic. And Snow White looked at me and tried not to burst out laughing while saying her line but she failed and “I pity you from the bottom of my heart” became “I pee hee hee you from the bottom of my har har heart.” And then we were all laughing and my long rubber nose was wobbling as the curtain came down. Or the time that we were on stage in Lil’ Abner and General Bullmoose (I think) was yelling about something or other and his mustache started coming loose from his lip as he was yelling, fluttering with each holler as I, standing next to him in a skin tight sequined dress, started giggling. I thought I had it under control but a sequined dress and stage lights and giggles meant all the sparkles were shimmering as they were caught by the light and, without trying, I was suddenly a blue disco ball in a scene about a flapping mustache. Or the time in Oklahoma when I got in that girl (stage) fight with Ado Annie on stage and her move was to fake “pull” my hair but she actually pulled it and my wig went sideways and I ended up with a ponytail coming out of my forehead. Good times. But for all the things that have gone wrong while I was on stage as a child, I had more fun than the kids in the play I saw last night. And that is a shame. It’s a shame because those kids think that is what theatre is. Those parents think that is what children’s theatre is. That production just killed off a whole generation of theatregoers in one horribly long night. And that is fully the director’s fault. I’ve directed lots and LOTS of children’s theatre and have had almost everything that could go wrong on stage go wrong. There have been missed lines and dropped props and missed scenes and scenes that looped around because kids tried to make up the pages they’d missed. We’ve had doors that didn’t open, lights that didn’t come up, and curtains that didn’t close. Or closed at the wrong time or didn’t open at the right time if they opened at all. I’ve had most of a cast out with the bird flu and had to sub in random friends and family of the cast, throwing them on stage holding scripts and following the other actors about blindly. I’ve had to monitor fights and mop up tears and soothe worried siblings and redirect helicopter parents. There has been dead air, blank stares, random dancing, peaking out from behind the curtain – I’ve seen it all. But every show I’ve directed or participated in, most of the kids had fun. Despite not knowing their lines or where to stand or forgetting their props or putting their tights on over their socks or whatever drama trauma they had, they had fun. And bad children’s theatre is bearable for the audience if the cast is having fun. No, really! Bad children’s theatre is hysterical for the audience if the cast is having fun. Last night, I realized how I became to be how I am. It’s because of children’s theatre I always expect the worst to happen and am pleasantly surprised when the best happens. It’s because of children’s theatre I see the funny in the worst situations. It's because of children's theatre that I am amused when mustaches fall off or wigs are pulled sideways or I throw a ball at a stranger’s head and end up in a dogfight or I tie a random stranger's shoe. Really, it’s not a bad way to live while I wait for the curtain to close. Here’s hoping the kids in that play last night find the humor in their experience and are hopeful enough to give it another try. I promise them, it will be worth it! The maroon sedan came barreling up behind me, the teeth of the bumper almost kissing mine. It’s square headlights shaking with the abrupt stop, the bumpers sharing the frigid air. My Smart Car’s lack of back end put her windshield a whole lot closer, the rear-view mirror giving me the perfect view of the lady behind the steering wheel. She was literally behind it, her tight grey hair-dressed curls peaking up over the rim of the wheel, eyes peering between the spokes. As I watched her, she ducked down and reached something from her passage side making it look like no one was driving the car.
The light changed and the car in front of me moved forward. I followed keeping an eye on the machine behind me. Her head popped back up and she was following me again, grey curls bobbing behind the steering wheel she was clutching tightly with both hands. She drove in spurts of speed; fast, faster slow. Fast, faster, slow. I caught a glimpse of the speed limit and looked down at my odometer. I was going faster than the allotted 30 mph, my speed increasing subconsciously as she chased me. I took my foot off the accelerator, eased it onto the break and slowed down. She did not. My rear view mirror was suddenly all wide windshield and shaking grey curls. Instinctively, I speed up not keen on getting rear-ended. The spurts of speed continued; slow, fast, faster, slow. Her beast of a car was weaving across the road, almost in a bush here, across the yellow line there. I worried for the mailboxes but she swerved each time their death seemed intimate At the next stop sign, I paused, hoping to give the car approaching the intersection to my left time to reach the sign before her. Hoping I could go and he would follow, acting as a buffer between her weapon and me. No such luck. He stopped and, with a nod in his direction, I drove through the intersection looking to confirm he was behind me. He was not. Taking the stop with a brief tap of her break, she sped up. Somewhat terrified, I continued on my route home, my eyes glancing from the road to my rear view mirror watching the show behind me; fast, faster, slow. The stop sign snuck up on us both. Panicked I slowed and braced for the hit. She stopped abruptly, the car bouncing from the sudden change in pace. Her head ducked out of sight again. I hurried through the intersection, hoping to prevent the inevitable meeting of bumpers. Her head ducked back up, curls bouncing. She was now holding a cigarette in her right hand. Fascinated, I watched as she wove in and out of the yellow lines, taking curves too wide and corners too narrowly. Her car swayed with the constant overcorrection and abrupt stops and starts as we sped through the city of Belle Meade. At one point a police car approached us in the oncoming lane. I thought about signaling him with my lights but recognized that would likely propel her, in a panic surge, into my Smart’s back end. I continued on, all the while mumbling, “Please don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me.” We were a team, thrown together by location and bad timing. She almost swerved off the road and into the expensive planting bed. Watching her, I almost took out a small decorative tree in the center medium. We reached the hill and I sped up, taking it at full speed, my car’s engine protesting at the sudden burst of speed. Pleased that I’d lost her, I relaxed my shoulders and slowed for a stop only to glance in my rear view mirror and spot her hurtling up behind me again, fast, faster, slow. I was now shouting in a sort of a mantra, “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me.” I was getting lightheaded from holding my breath every time she got close. My ten minute drive was an eternity of terror until, finally she turned left, leaving me to breathe again, and amble safely home where I promptly got on the phone and tried to get my mother to give up her car keys. This horror played out in a ’68 VW Bug might be enough to give someone a heart attack. My mother was not cooperative. California, you have been warned. On July 1, 2013 I had coffee with a girl who had been one of my employees. She wanted to thank me for the recommendation I’d given her that had gotten her into grad school. It hadn’t been a hard recommendation to write – she was a very hard worker with a great imagination, just what a toy designer needed. We had coffee after she’d graduated from toy designer school. (Yes, that is a thing. No, they don’t call it that. I’m being vague on purpose.) Anyway, she brought her toys to show me and they were awesome. She’d designed a therapy book of sorts that didn’t require countless hours in a doctor’s office. She’d written a story and designed these toys to accompany the book; toys the kids could take with them for reassurance, if needed. It was brilliant.
But brilliant isn’t helpful if it’s just sitting in her bag and only shown to dorks like me. Brilliant is actually quite stupid if you aren’t sharing it with those who need it. I challenged her to get it into production. Really what I did is dare her to take the steps to get it into the world and out of her office. She was motivated and excited. I was energized and smug. She was going to change the world in a small way and I’d had something to do with it. And then she turned to me and said “What about you? What are you doing with your writing?” Crap. It’s not so easy to be superior and self-righteous when the light is shining on you. Tables turned, she dared me to get my stuff out into the world. I don't back down from a dare. We gave each other the deadline of July 1, 2014. One year from that day. One year to take what we worked on in secret and share it with the world – totally understanding that it might go nowhere but we had a year to try. Why is it that when there is something you want, time moves like a snail? But, if there is a deadline that scares you, time moves quicker than a cheetah chasing dinner? I swear it was just last month that we made this pact and here it is March 12, 2014. The four(ish) remaining months are taunting me and I’m still totally terrified to be sharing the weird stuff that is going on inside me. (Cue Rocky music) I have not sat idle. I’ve sent stuff out to a few publishers. I’ve been futzing with pieces I’ve started and polishing pieces I’ve finished. And six months ago today, I started this blog. Writing daily has been a challenge and a chore and it’s very obvious I need an editor, but it’s been good for me. And yet, I still have lots to do to make that deadline. But I will make it. (Music swells) I have no choice. I don’t back down from a dare. Now – take a breath and let the music die down and let me change the tone. Let me lighten your morning now that I’ve filed it with intense self-angst. A friend sent me this link of this letter to Waldorf and Statler highlighting what they do best. She thought it was appropriate after reading yesterdays post. It makes me happy for so many reasons, most of all because my friend sent it to me. A new friend I made in Nashville who reads the blog and understands what’s inside my head. People like that are hard to find. So, new friend, thank you for the giggle at the end of this very “Me! Me!” post. And, to my friend R who ALWAYS sees people as Muppets, “Meh meh, Happy Day of Birth!” Death has been on my mind a lot lately. (No, I’m not suicidal. No need to worry about me right now.) One of the songwriters here in Nashville, Lorna Flowers, passed away last week unexpectedly during a procedure. Most folks found out the next morning and by noon, had organized a remembrance for that night. Only a few hours notice and the room was packed with people sharing stories and songs from this woman’s life because it is a family here. Folks bond and share and grow together in a way I’ve seen no other art community. The good in a songwriter’s life is celebrated and the bad is commiserated - both extremes usually over a few beers and a few songs. And almost always, the bad is crafted into wickedly poignant line in a song.
We made the move to Nashville because of a loss of a friend to cancer and in Lorna’s passing, we are reminded why. We moved so we didn’t live our lives with regrets about what might have been. We moved to explore all the creative things we couldn’t focus on full time in CA. Working to live was just a phrase we said but never did. We never really moved outside our cocoon of a house because the world was busy and noisy and overpopulated. We never went to concerts or movies because the hassle of driving and parking and sitting with asshats who had no social skills would destroy the experience. We moved because the outside world was making our inside sense of self into a horrible grumpy old man – much like the two dudes on the Muppets. Too much like the two dudes on the Muppets actually. Here, we are breathing. We are going to concerts and seeing movies and enjoying people. Husband has friends he didn’t gain by marrying me. He has friends that aren’t from his hometown or from work where they are friendly only because of location. Here, we have been adopted into the songwriter family, odd they may all be, and are celebrated for taking the chance despite the horrible odds. Here, we go out to eat at fancy and at not so fancy restaurants dressed in jeans because we can. We take long drives around the Tennessee countryside and pop in for an afternoon of music over a meal. Here, we are creative – though not necessary productive. (Okay, that last one is only me. Husband and his co-writer have just demoed a few songs.) I woke up the other night in tears because I dreamt about my friend. I woke up in tears because I regret not telling her to take a risk with her plans. I regret not telling her that life - her life was going to be short and she should – she needed to go and see the places she wanted, hug the people she loved before it was over. I regret not telling her that the fight was going to be too long and to violent for her to live what was left of her life. I saw her hope and I didn’t want to crush it. And I worry; I regret that it was the wrong choice. That I should have shared the doom and gloom that lives inside of me and maybe her final days would have been filled with more than pain. Whatever you believe in, God, Fate, Mother Nature, whatever, you have to see that life is a series of lessons. Sometimes it takes just one 3rddegree burn to teach you not to touch that hot stove. Sometimes you have to touch the stove again and again and still you won’t learn. Sometimes, we’re like the toddler learning to walk. We hold on to fingers and furniture long after we have the skills because we’re terrified to let go. Sometimes we’re like the dog that wants in the kitchen door when the front door is open and you won’t come to the front door no matter how loudly your name is called. Okay, that might only be our dog… I didn’t mean to get this deep (yes, I meant both ways) this morning. My back relaxer pills make me sluggish and introspective. My point is; do at least one of the things on your wish list today, even if it’s a small one. Make plans to do the big ones at some point soon. Hug your friends and family and tell them that you love them. Take a moment to hold your face up to the sun and remember those you’ve let go. And live – or at least try to live your life without regrets. Don’t be Waldorf or Statler. - unless, of course, being a grumpy old man Muppet is your dream. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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