On Offense

We opened the show with "Option" last night. It's essentially a typical short form improv scene that morphs into genre switching at the audience's whim. I played a girl on a date and then at the suggestion of "horror" a cast member said he had slipped a serum into our blood. I did the first thing I could think of (pretend my face was melting off) and then the audience had us switch genres to rom-com. I kept my face distorted and said, "I look like this, but I know you love me for what's on the inside." (Laugh, laugh.)

As soon as I said it I had a little shiver up my spine. Some people really do have distorted voices. I wasn't aiming to make fun of them. I was just...acting like I was in a horror movie. As the game ended and I sat on the sidelines during the next piece, I really thought hard about how someone in the audience with a disfigured cousin might have taken that twenty seconds. Then I tried very hard to think of other options I had in the moment. I could have pretended to be a horror-trope ditz, which would have been satire (or problematic?). Or maybe I could have been the killer. I shook it off and sang a mini-musical about a purple alligator (lol comedy).

When we returned from intermission I started an intro for the next game and for the first time looked into the front row. Dead center. Staring up at me. A burn victim with missing fingers and a disfigured face. I flubbed a word. Ultimate universal irony. Then I made a point to finish my speech and give a winning smile to the dude. I creeped on him for the rest of the show. He was having an excellent time, clapping and hooting.

Earlier this summer I taught a "song parody" camp to middle schoolers. I played Weird Al's parody of "Complicated" "Constipated." The song ended and I asked the group why it was funny. A blonde 12 yo's practically screamed, "It's not! It's not FUNNY." CoMeDy Iz HaRd, u gUyz!

Happy Working Song

My sister told me my blog has been too sad. Well, toot. But okay. Some great things about summer camp:

Storm cloud. July 2013. Michigan.

Running the long, quiet road of antique farms just off camp property Monday. Only two girls signed up for an afternoon four-miler. Track stars of course. They smoked me. It was very windy.

My first period Musical Theatre girls kicking their feet to "Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile."

Playing Mafia (I actually love Mafia. Like, a lot. I wish it were still acceptable to casually mention it be played at parties now that I am an adult. Sigh.) in the lake on a very wavy day. Hopping the white caps during accusations.

My campers at the breakfast table every morning. One brings yogurts for all. Another carried cups of water by the bunch. That one always asks for a bowl of Golden Grahams. There is a subtle game of who will get a bagel first--thus becoming the table toaster slave.

And on your lovely woody banks,
we dream beneath the shade,
and offer up again our thanks,
your memories ne'er will fade.

Making Dreams Come True

It's a double-edged sword not having a dream.

Was talking with a friend a few summers ago, and she kept referring to her future children in a factual sense. "So, you definitely want kids." I surmised. She nodded and I told her she'd be a good mom (she would). She looked down into her lap, paused, then said, "It's scary. What if I never meet the right person?" It was the first time I had considered the fear associated with having a dream. I thanked the Maine stars above us that as a gal without strong maternal instinct, I'll never feel that pressure.

We are bathed in "live your dream" and "shoot for the moon" posters in elementary school, but I know a guy who's dream was to be a pro tennis player. And at age 22, he wasn't. And, guess what? That's when you're in the best shape of your life. Dream deferred? Nah, dawg, game over.

I give thanks for my spiritual education that has taught me to seek treasures in heaven instead of the flesh. What we do is just stuff. It's who we are and how we love that fill the pitcher full. But.

Friday I told my sister how I revisited my high school blog recently and how comical my life goals were when I was 15:

"Seven things to do before death( these all are very difficult to actually accomplish)

1) find out what deja vu is

2) fall in love

3) be on SNL

4) go to state in speech or group interp

5) paint a pretty picture

6) look really hott for something important*

7) eat an entire box of chocolate while watching my favorite movies"

Embarrassing/hilarious. But, at least I'm 6 for 7...subjectively.* I mean, obviously there's one goal here that doesn't quite fit in with the others in terms of ease/lack therof...

Pookie exclaimed, "Do it! Go be on SNL!" But, one, that's not something you can just do. Two, there are formal steps I could be taking to improve my chances, but I'm not in an appropriate location for that, and I'm not going to drop out of school. And, THREE, I don't actually think that's my dream job anymore. I really don't. Each passing year edges me closer to page and further from stage. I'm no longer a performer who writes. I'm a writer who performs. Probably in terms of talent, surely in terms of preference.

There are some things I can do to keep poking at the possibility of New York sketch comedy in my future. (Oh, that's a whole other thing. I don't want to live in New York!) I can keep writing sketch (I've been distracted this semester by major focus on my newest play). I can do more stand-up. (But, it stresses me out, and it often interferes with my grading routine.)

It's not an end-all, be-all dream, so I 'm not too concerned with making end-all, be-all strides in that direction. Maybe I want to be a classroom educator forever! Maybe an English teacher! But, wait, my resume is thin. I don't have time for more English classes so I can take more writing classes.

Maybe my biggest dream is writing the Great American Play? Doubtful though. Since I'd rather go to improv rehearsal than do rewrites. It's this horrid cycle of having several key interests and no dreams. On one hand, if I have no dream, my dream can never be crushed. On the other hand, I am a hard worker and an officious person, so right now without one clear focus, I pour over lectures to give my students and don't sleep in order to edit new scenes and only break from grading long enough to show up early to improv rehearsal. Since I don't know where I'm going, every single step is make or break. You might think, "That doesn't sound so bad. We should strive to do everything well." And I agree, but doing everything you do well is different than plain doing everything. And I know this was long to read, but I've been up for hours writing and I can't even tell you why.

Hey now, hey now. This is what dreams are made of.

Ant Lion

Sunset, Fourth of July. I was on the beach with the little tots. Bonfire and what have you. "LOOK AT THE ANT LION," two girls ran up to me, one holding out her palm. She was holding an ugly bug with odd pinchers. "And ant lion because they bite the heads off ants!" I did not doubt it. "And look how it burrows!"

I faked a "Wooow," but then I watched and it was actually pretty cool. The bug sort of scooted its butt backwards into the sand. And then it was gone. They two chicadees dug it back up and re-watched its digging several times. Finally, they left it in a gnome home in the dune grass.

I'm not one to idolize children. I don't particularly enjoy the "Be like a child!" mantras because I think children are wholly more selfish and myopic than most humans. However, it is refreshing and wonderful to see the newness, to get amped about bugs, to make up names and insist their validity.

One Day at Camp

At 5:40 I'm running with holy sneakers and no headphones. There are rolling grassy fields, and a treeline covering the lake, which I can't see, but I can always hear. By 6:30 I'm sitting on the tennis courts with twenty other young women quietly praying. At 7 AM we're all hustling down the beach steps, cheering children huddling in their suits. We dive into the freezing water, and in the showers Kath and I belt "Crazy"--the Britney echoes across the high school girls' quad. We raise the flag, I eat my oatmeal and peanut butter. I arrange the activities, while little girls zip around sweeping their cabin floors and folding their sheets, I organize Excel spreadsheets. I ring the bell. I talk to the 9th graders about setting goals that mean something. Sometimes they stare at an ant marching by, sometimes they look up and nod and write with urgency in their notebooks. The bell rings, and I sit on the head counselor cabin with my laptop. I read and edit report after report. These are parent lifelines. It's hard to care about each one, harder when the warmth hits my face and my eyes bag, puff, and shut for a little too long. "I'm dragging," I announce, so Kath shoots up from her desk and announces herself, "We should probably hula hoop." We do. I'm back on track. We ring the bell. We see the kids come and go, they pass, they laugh, they've been out in the world, and we've been reading about them. I spend another hour and a half editing. I hoof up to the dining hall. I read lunch table assignments. I walk to the counter to fill my plate with the vegetarian casserole. I read more dang reports. During Rest Hour I read more Viola Spolin and fall alseep until the DANG BELL RINGS AGAIN. Sigh. The bell. I put reports on a flashdrive. I head to the office. I get the mail. I sort it. I make the last twenty minutes of Beach Period--just in time for two games of Mafia. It's my night off, and I have a date with Dunt and Kath. We hit the town. The fancy grill on main street--there are fresh greens and braided bread and coconut curry. Let's not forget the desserts. We don't speak of kids or work, and it feels like we're adults (as we are)--speaking on war and relationships instead of bubbles and yo-yos. We look in shops. I watch a sunset. I'm writing this in Kath's cottage. I have the internet, there's a movie playing. I'm in actual civilization for once. I have nothing pressing to do before bed, no one calling my name. Oh, what good I believe camp can do. Oh, how I know I am blessed to bless. Oh, how I am blessed myself. But, oh, how I want to plan my own days again and how I want to sleep when it's time and how I want to be in a bed without sand.

Making Thugs

Love Just Leaves You Bruised

There is a bruise on my left shin.
A young boy ran backwards into my bicycle on the sidewalk across from the basketball court of the local park.
I had stopped to take a photo of the ice cream truck--
THE ICE CREAM TRUCK in JANUARY, FOLKS--
when SMASH, the boy rammed into me, my pedal rammed into my shin.
"Hey," I said like an authority figure.

I had seen the boy at the ice cream truck while I was getting out my phone. Two girls--age estimation 11/12--walked by the kid. One had long dark hair and was pretzel rod thin. The other girl was pretty chubby for her age. Glasses. Wearing a white spaghetti strap tank. She motioned up and down her pudgy body to the boy, "Watch out! 'Cos I'll beat you up." As far as I could tell, he hadn't done anything to provoke this girl. Maybe in school, but she almost seemed playful. The boy laughed, and she started walking menacingly back toward him. She got high off his retreat and she raised her fist at him. "I'll kick you," she said. "Take it like a man!"

Thoughts:
"Should I say something? Should I just break it up? I don't think there's real danger here, and I don't want to embarrass this girl who does't realize how unlovable she's making herself. I'd like to explain to her how polarizing and negative comments about a young boy's ability to 'take it like a man' are, but will she understand that? Will they just call ME names?"

WHAM. Boy hits bike. The girls walk on.

I take my photo, stand still for a moment, consider getting a pink panther pop, don't, bike slowly on. As I near the girls, I think about a brief word I might share with them: "Hey, girls, it's never funny or cute to be violent--even pretend violent." Or, "Why did you do that?" Or, "Respect boys. You want them to respect you." But just as I get behind them and open my mouth, the troublemaker turns around, and very hastily says, "Really sorry about that."

"It's okay," I say.

"...He just wasn't watching where he was going," she says.

"Mhmm," I say. And I continue on. She drops her shoulders a little--we both know she just tried to pin the blame for being so insecure turned rough, we both knew she needed to say sorry, we both knew "sorry" wouldn't make this bruise vanish.

I Love You

When I was thirteen my friend Smidge and I were supposed to prepare for a debate against two other boys in Language Arts class. They were talkin' smack. The topic was Banning Books in Libraries Yes or No? We said No. The two rascally boys said Yes. They were explaining how they were going to tear us apart in the debate (spoiler: they did not) and one of them said something like "Don't you hate us?" so I of course said No. I said, "I don't hate anyone."

The one with a stupid bowl-cut asked, "Why not?" A stupid question. I said, "I love everyone." I was really lame, but it's just what came out. And, it was/ is the truth. So he and his friend gawked. EVERYONE? EVERYONE?
I was already exposed. I nodded. "Well, then, you love us?" They egged me on. I was in deep. I nodded yes. I tried to look confident.

"Say it then," they jeered. I wanted the conversation to be over and to continue our discussion on inappropriate kids books. I looked one of them in the eye and said, "I love you." He looked horrified--absolutely ready to vomit. I understand and don't understand. The other laughed and laughed. I asked to talk more about the assignment. The laughing bowl-cut kid told as many people as would listen. "She said I love you! She said it to ----!" I was so embarrassed.

I understand and don't understand.

Nut-Free

The high school I work at is a completely "Nut-Free Facility." When did this happen? When I was a freshman in high school I was in a play of three Edgar Allen Poe stories, and the kid who was the old man from "The Tell Tale Heart" was allergic to peanuts. Our director sat munching a bag of trail mix and offered some to the guy. He said, "No thanks. If I eat that, I'll die." Our director paused, ate another handful, then offered again. We all laughed! HAHA PEANUT ALLERGIES!

Upon having to throw away the tubs of hazelnut cream cheese I brought for the judge's lounge at the school's speech meet, I felt like the world was full of wusses. I mean, really, can't you just not eat a Snickers? Do you have to have them banned wherever you are?

And then this girl had a giant puffy face. And her coaches were moments away from calling 911. And she for real looked like she was gunna die. And she was just in the same room as someone eating peanut butter. Woof.

I am more understanding, but still kind of like, "Uh...what are we doing that todays' teenagers nearly explode at the smell of a peanut?" Put your kids in dirt. Stop hanging out next to factories and DDTing your family garden for macademia's sake.



Other nuts. Spring Formal 2010.

Happy Halloween

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I love fall. I love sweets. I love the macabre and the scary. I love pumpkins. I am sad to see it go.

Today was a great day. Kay and I cooked up some egg sandwiches, the weather was perfect for an afternoon run, I audited the improv class I will soon be teaching, my sister cooked a killer zucchini pasta, and the Giants won. (One more game baby!) Not so Halloweenie though. I mean, we're doing haunted houses next weekend, and I did enjoy a fab party at Cocoa's last night. Still. No mini candies, no tiny costumes. No school-sanctioned orange cupcakes.

There are very very VERY few times I consider having children. It's definitely not the time and generally not my interest. But today...I wouldn't have minded toting some kiddos around. Maybe I could have rented some.


middle school camping trip 2009

Que sera sera. Whatever will be will be.
The future's not ours to see. Que sera sera.

EDIT: After thinking about kids on Halloween for about five more seconds, I was re-horrified by the memories of children screaming, crying, and tantruming ... Nevermind my Halloween was perfect.

Ender Will Save Us All

Ender's Game is ending. I have really enjoyed reading this book. I don't want it to end. I'm milking the last chapter for all its worth. (Also, I don't have another read on hand.) Kids do so much. But, I really don't love living in a society that says that is strange, nor one that says there is a peak on excellent achievement. If I were ever a teacher, which I will be, I am unsure of how I would promote students' greatness while sticking true to my thought that it's not so crazy incredible to achieve, to be wise, to create in youth. In fact, it's often easier. I guess...you just love everyone greatly (equally) and celebrate everything--with a grain of salt.

They get nostalgic 'bout the last ten years before the last ten years have passed.


Lazz & Blanchie, May 2010

Timeless

Kay explaining the end of Mouse Hunt when the mouse helps the men who own the house decide to make it a cheese factory.

Kay: I like this part.
Me: Yeah, because you want to work in a cheese factory.
Kay: No...because they...they understand each other.


tried to take a nice picture of me and Kay--this is what I got

AND

Diana Ross being sung at the top of high school girls' lungs from the showers twenty feet from my bedside window at camp.

Stop in the name of love before you break my heart.


June 2010

Kiddieland

Kiddieland is an amusement park from my childhood that is closing this fall as part of a family quabble about land. My dad sent me the news story while I was at camp. I hadn't been there since 1993. I sent him back a postcard in all caps "WE MUST GO TO KIDDIELAND!" So, this weekend, before I left his house for The Stanley Cruise (which is actually just the code name my sister and I gave our week together before I go back to school), we knew we had to go to Kiddieland.

The whole way there I think both of us got increasingly concerned about what we just signed on to do. Yeah, Kiddieland is a place for kids and parents, but I'm, um, 21. It was over an hour away, so it's not like we could just decided to go back home. We entered kind of agreeing even if we didn't do anything it would be worth the trip because we wanted to be in the atmosphere one last time. The middle attraction is the roller coaster called The Little Dipper. It looked like I could do that. As we crept up in line, I saw that probably both of us could squeeze into a car. When it was our turn we both got in t he dink-o-ride, and it took off. It was so much fun! We were both laughing as we zig-zagged all over up and down!

It was great! We went on several other rides, ate a bag of roasted almonds, laughed at all the funny kids being kids, and left about three hours later very satisfied. Blah blah blah being a kid doesn't stop at a certain age blah. But, it's true.

Goodbye Kiddieland! Thanks for 80 great years! You will be missed!