Huey

This is Veteran's Day weekend and my father is a Veteran. When Sara and I were little, Dad - a Navy helicopter pilot and systems analyst - was ordered to Viet Nam. We were used to him having to go places because he had been going on several-month cruises since before we were born. At one point Sara asked Dad where he was going and was aghast when he told her and wth the clarity of vision that six-year-olds have in abundance, she told him "you can't go there. There's a war there! You could get killed!" (Or, more likely, "kilt". Smetimes Sara's enunciation was unique to her.)

The day that we drove Dad to the airport (Mom or Dad drove, of course, Sara and I were passengers.), Sara gave Dad a bracelet that she had made and told him that he should wear it every day because then if he were captured, the Viet Namese would know that he had a little girl who loved him and needed him to come home.

Sara's bracelet must have worked because Dad was never captured and came home safe and sound. The only time in my life that I cried because I was happy was when Dad came home. Mom kept saying that he would be home when I got home from school, but I refused to believe her because I didn't want the horrible disappointment if she was wrong. She wasn't wrong and when I saw Dad standing in the kitchen, I burst into tears.

Dad flew Hueys in the war and was part of a Helicopter Squadron (HS). He brought us back cameras, pearl neckslaces, and Ao Dais. The Ao Dai is the traditional Viet Namese women's clothing: loose silk trousers worn with a long tunic. (Yes, I still have them.)

When I was a callow teenager (very callow, if memory serves), I asked him "What did you do in the war, Daddy?" and his answer was something along the lines of how he flirted with B-girls and flew helicopters. He wouldn't say much else about it. Dad has never been the kind of emotional packrat that Mom and I are, so I figured that this was part of that. He doesn't live in the past, doesn't dwell on the past much at all, and has always been a bit leery of folks who do. Whenever I hear Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, I think of Dad. So it was many years later before it occured to me that possibly he didn't tell me about Viet Nam not because it's all lumped under "the old days," but because it would have involved explaining things to me that at that age I could never really have understood. War looks a lot different from the inside.

Anyway, before they shut down for several months for renovations and such, the National Museum of American History had a exhibition called The Price of Freedom: Americans at War that included a Huey. David and I went down to see the exhibition and while we walked through the whole thing, I stood a long time in front of that Huey. As far as I know, it was the first time that I'd ever seen one.


"What did you just call it?"
"Nam. That's what you call it."
"Don't try to be cool. You can't say Nam. You weren't there. It's Vit Nam to you."

--- James McLure, "Lone Star"

No rehearsals

I auditioned for a show and the director, well, let's say that he went another way. Even though, as my friend Linda and I like to say, there is no other way. There is our way and wrong ways.

The nice thing about not being cast is that now I have a lots of free nights that would have been filled with rehearsal. Yes, there will be a certain amount of sitting on the couch watching the sort of bad TV that I find stress-relieving (for instance, y'all are aware that CSI: Miami is probably one of the best comedies on the air, right? Well, more on that another time.). And while I'm sitting on the couch, I can read books. Real books, instead of a script. And I can spend unlimited hours providing a lap for Pekoe, which he believes should be my priority.

But the best part of all this free time is that I can spend a whole lot of it with my friends who don't do theater. The people who've had "Oh, I can't - I have rehearsal" as my answer to invitations. I can go to movies and out to dinner and to all sorts of other things.

When professionals aren't currently working on something, they say that they are between projects. When amateurs like me are at liberty, we say that we are taking a break. So I'm taking a break and I'm looking forward to filling my schedule with dates with my friends.

True. Sad, but probably true.

"It's already hot in here."

"Yeah. If I'm not wearing my sweater, it's pretty hot. That's why I'm not too worried about my lax morals - I'll be pretty comfy in hell."

Snow Caps

Long years ago, back when I was in college, my pal Graymael (whose given name is David, just as it is for so many, many, many men I know) was an occasional joker. One day, he was sitting with one of his very best friends and decided that there was no better way to spend the next few minutes than messing with said friend. So Gray looked sad, which for someone who is even more upbeat, extroverted, and social than I am is really saying something.

The friend, I'm not sure which one right now, so let's just call him by one the other Names of All Men, John, inquired as to what was the matter. After being prodded a bit, Gray said that he was worried about things at home.

"Why?"

"Well, my Mom was in my sister's room the other day, putting laundry away, and she found ---"
"What?!"

"Non-pareils. You know," and here the voice dropped in pitch, " 'Snow Caps.' "

I think that Gray was able to keep "John" convinced that his sister had a drug problem for the next day or two. Probably until the next time he went to a movie, I guess. Or a drugstore.

I love this story and tell it anytime there are non-pareils around. Jill brought some really, really good ones into the office today, so I got to tell her the story as I was enjoying several.

Of course, considering how good these ones are, perhaps I do have a substance abuse problem with them.

I voted

And you know the very best thing about it? When I got there the line was short. I had to wait about three minutes to get my Democracy Debit Card and go to a machine. But by the time I left, the line was out the door. Possibly a 30-minute wait time, possibly more.

You're probably thinking that I'm just bragging about having good line karma, but that's not it. I'm delighted that this many people turned out to vote on a rainy night in safely blue state.

My Mom and I used to go vote together. We'd walk over to the YMCA and wait in line and participate in representative government and then walk home. And we liked it when the lines were long.

Before I was old enough to vote, Mom's polling place was my elementary school (now county offices and a rec center) and I remember the voting machines - the kind with the curtain and the levers. One big lever closed the curtain and sort of unlocked the machine. Then one would flip the little lever next to the name of the candidates one wished to support. Pulling the big lever again finalized the ballot and opened the curtain. It was pretty neat and felt very important.

By the time I was voting, we were using punch ballots. Easier to use, no need for the big curtains, and they were set up at little plastic hutches which wobbled a bit every time the punch was used. No romance whatsoever.

Now in Maryland we use touchscreen balloting. Simple. Easy. Controversial. Also completely unromantic. If the punch ballot felt like I was using office supplies to vote, the touchscreen is like getting my government from an ATM.

So now the romance has to come from what should be important anyway - that we are participating in our own governance. I go out and vote every time, no matter how unimpressive the candidates are, because I have never taken my right to vote for granted. If one looks at the history of the world, the number of people who get to chose their "leaders" is still a tiny, tiny minority. In Colonial Virginia, for instance, in order to vote one had to have 5 qualifications: one had to be a white, male, Protestant, landholder, who was over the age of 21. Today only one of those still applies. (I believe it is the age restriction, but I could be wrong. Virginia can be a pretty weird place. Not to mention a commonwealth instead of a state.)

Look at how many of the amendments to our Constitution deal specifically with enfranchisement. Clearly, this is something we take seriously around here.

So I vote. And I glad that I do. And I glad that I wrote in Louis Goldstein for Comptroller, even if he didn't get as many votes as the (also dead) lady in South Dakota.

Not a selling point for David

I keep hearing ads on the radio (this station desperately needs more sponsors) about the "Journey Diamond Necklace." The ad campaign has some sappy sounding people saying lame-o stuff about how the increasing size of the diamonds symbolizes their relationship - their journey.
Which means two things:

1. David won't be buying me one of these things. If it had been the "Boston Diamond Necklace," maybe. Although a "Rush Diamond Necklace" could have lots of symbolism.... "It symbolizes how we're rushing into this and are headed for an ugly breakup." Then again, David doesn't like Rush any better than he does Journey. I could go for a "Shriekback Diamond Necklace," although I'm not clear on what the symbolism would be. Naturally, the "Talking Heads Diamond Necklace" would be the perfect choice for us. Not that David is likely to buy me an any kind of diamond necklace, but at least now we know which one to look for.

2. Just as well because the ads run so often that now about every 40 minutes during the day, I cough up a hairball. A necklace shouldn't make me do that.

And, uhm, the necklaces themselves aren't all that impressive. At least one of them looks remarkably like a tie. And at 1/4 carat total weight - a very, very small tie. I guess that one symbolizes how we used to love to play office when we were little children.

I promise to vote

I really will. I have never missed voting, so I will do it. I just don't want to. No one has given me anyone to vote for.

NPR had a short "fun" piece today interviewing two of the voiceover guys who do negative political ads. I couldn't stand to listen to it.

And I'm writing in Louis Goldstein.

Other than that, I'm very well indeed

I have a slight cold. It's mostly congestion so that I can't breath and (so far) I've been lucky enough to avoid the tearing cough and post nasal drip that mark most of my colds. So far.

But! I've been out of Nyquil and so have made a new friend: Dimetapp. When I was in college, Tim's sister, Jyl, called it Dime-a-trip because it left her completely stoned, so naturally my takeaways from that were:

1. Dime-a-trip is a much cooler sounding - and snarkier - name.
2. Don't take this before oprating complicated machinery, such as my life.

So I've been using Dayquil as my diurnal cold medication and Dime-a-trip at night. First of all, let me say that unlike its usual high record of success, the Dayquil is completely letting me down this time. But the Dime-a-trip has been coming through like nothing else. I take it right before bed and I'm breathing easy and complete asleep within minutes. I stay asleep all night, I wake up feeling ready to face the day, and I'm still breathing. It's the 12-hour extended tab and at pretty much 12 hours and 5 minutes, I can no longer breath easily, so they aren't just making up that dosing recommendation.

The first time that I was given codeine for a cough (many years ago), the directions said not to operate heavy machinery after taking it, so I waited until I got to work. I took a half teaspoon-ful, instead of the teaspoon that the label recommended, but it didn't matter - I was very, very stoned for the next several hours.

It was fascinating. I could only think one thought at a time, so breathing shifted from an involuntary to a voluntary act and I couldn't seem to remember to do it. My train of thought went something like this:

I should breathe in .... Yeah, I should .... Have I done it yet? ... No, I don't think so ... How about now? ... Yeah...

Lather, rinse, and repeat for the exale.

In those days, I did most of my typing on an IBM Selectric (still the finest typewriter ever made) and I spent most of the morning staring at the keyboard trying to remember what it was for. Who knew that a typewriter was heavy machinery?

Fortunately, the codeine wore off in time for me to drive home. I took a quarter teaspoon the next day and was fine. But you can see why I don't take Dime-a-trip during the day.

One's job

Certain things are linked in my mind. When I'm considering having something I shouldn't, the temptation trio from Yeomen runs through my head; when I get home after a funeral, I want to watch The Big Chill. But whenever I think about doing things extremely well, and about doing the things we were meant to do, this passage from Dorothy Sayers' Gaudy Night runs though my head.


"I quite agree with you," said Miss de Vine, "about the difficulty of combining intellectual and emotional interests. I don't think it affects women only; it affects men as well. But when men put their public lives before their private lives, it causes less outcry than when a woman does the same thing, because women put up with neglect better than men, having been brought up to expect it."

"But suppose one doesn't quite know which one wants to put first. Suppose," said Harriet, falling back on words which were not her own, "suppose one is cursed with a both a heart and a brain?"

"You can usually tell," said Miss de Vine, "by seeing what kind of mistakes you make. I'm quite sure that one never makes fundamental mistakes about the thing one really wants to do. Fundamental mistakes arise out of lack of genuine interest. In my opinion, that is."

"I made a very big mistake once," said Harriet, "as I expect you know. I don't think that arose out of lack of interest. It seemed at the time the most important thing in the world."

"And yet you made the mistake. Were you really giving all your mind to it, do you think? Your mind? Were you really being as cautious and exacting about it as you would be about writing a passage of fine prose?"

"That's a rather difficult sort of comparison. One can't, surely, deal with emotional excitements in that detached spirit."

"Isn't the the writing of good prose an emotional excitement?"

"Yes, of course, it is. At least, when you get the thing dead right and know it's dead right, there's no excitement like it. It's marvellous. It makes you fel like God on the Seventh Day -- for a bit, anyhow."

"Well, that's what I mean. You expend the trouble and you don't make any mistake -- and then you experience the ectasy. But if there any subject in which you're content with the second-rate, then it isn't really your subject."

"You're dead right," said Harriet, after a pause. "If one's genuinely interested one knows how to be patient and let time pass, as Queen Elizabeth said. Perhaps that's the meaning of the phrase about genius being eternal patience, which I always thought rather absurd. If you truly want a thing, you don't snatch; if you snatch, you don't really want it. Do you suppose that, if you find yourself taking pains about a thing, it's a proof of its importance to you?"

"I think it is, to a large extent. But the big proof is that the thing comes right, without those fundamental errors. One always makes surface errors, of course. But a fundamental error is a sure sign of not caring. I wish one could teach people nowadays that the doctrine of snatching what one thinks one wants is unsound."

"I saw six plays this winter in London," said Harriet, "all preaching the doctrine of snatch. I agree that they left me with the feeling that none of the characters knew what they wanted."

"No," said Miss de Vine. "If you are once sure what you do want, you find that everything else goes down before it like grass under a roller -- all other interests, your own and other people's. Miss Lydgate wouldn't like my saying that, but it's as true of her as of anybody else. She's the kindest soul in the world, in things she indifferent about, like the peculations of Jukes. But she hasn't the slightest mercy on the prosodical theories of Mr. Elkbottom. She wouldn't countenance those to save Mr. Elkbottom from hanging. She'd say she couldn't. And she couldn't, of course. If she actually saw Mr. Elkbottom writhing in humiliation, she'd be sorry, but she wouldn't alter a paragraph. That would be treason. One can't be pitiful where one's own job is concerned. You'd lie cheerfully, I expect, about anything except -- what?"

"Oh, anything!" said Harriet, laughing. "Except saying that somebody's beastly book is good when it isn't. I can't do that. It makes me a lot of enemies, but I can't do it."

"No, one can't," said Miss de Vine. "However painful it is, there's always one thing one has to deal with sincerely, if there's any rot to one's mind at all. I ought to know, from my own experience. Of course, the one thing may be an emtional thing; I don't say it mayn't. One may commit all the sins the calendar, and still be faithful and honest towards one person. If so, then that one person is probably's one's appointed job. I'm not despising that kind of loyalty; it doesn't happen to be mine, that is all."

"Did you discover that by making a fundamental mistake?" asked Harriet, a little nervously.

"Yes," said Miss de Vine. "I once got engaged to somebody. But I found I was always blundering -- hurting his feelings, doing stupid things, making quite elementary mistakes about him. In the end I realized that I simply wasn't taking as much trouble with him as I should have done over a disputed reading. So I decided he wasn't my job." She smiled. "For all that, I was fonder of him than he was of me. He married an excellent woman who is devoted to him and does make him her job. I should think he was a full-time job. He is a painter and usually on the verge of bankruptcy; but he paints very well."

"I suppose one oughtn't to marry anybody, unless one's prepared to make him a full-time job."

"Probably not; though there are a few rare people, I believe, who don't look on themselves as jobs, but as fellow creatures."

A pox on all their houses

As time goes on I am less and less inclined to vote. I suspect that the politicians like it that way, although I can't be sure. What is driving me away from my polling place is all the negative ads that run pretty much 24/7 during the final weeks of the campaign. Maybe I'm different from other voters, but I don't want to vote against someone, I want to vote for someone and these folks don't seem to give me a reason to vote for them, and every time I hear one of them say that he (or she) approves the preceeding annoying, manipulative, dishonest crap, I have less interest in voting for her (or him). I'm rarely home, so I just don't see that much TV, but whenever it's on, there's another ad that makes me feel like showering with Lysol.

There's a story in Maryland politics that the first time that Louis Goldstein ran for office (shortly before the Big Bang), he went door-to-door in his hometown, introduced himself to anyone who would answer and said that he was hoping he could count on their vote or something similar. Well, he started this early enough in the campaign season that the question he got most often was who was he running against? "I don't know," he say, "but I'm sure he's a real nice fella and would do a good job, but I think I'd do a better one." And he held office in Maryland for nearly 60 years.

I value my right to vote. I just more and more detest the people I'm required to squander that right on. In the community organizations I'm active in, elections are never this awful. People offer up their own qualifications and never say a word against the folks against whom they are running. It is a pleasure to vote for them.

The person who has annoyed me the most this campaign season has been Peter Franchot and he's running for Louis's old office - Comptroller. I think I'll write Louis's name in because there's no freaking way that I am voting the man who signed off on those ugly ads.

And then I get about a two-hour respite before the horrible ads begin for 2008. Ick.

One Mom missed

My mother seemed to like to go to schools that aren't where you'd think they are. She started at Miami University of Ohio and when her family moved she transferred to Washington University in St. Louis. Unfortunately, she broke her streak when she got her master's at the University of Rhode Island when she and Dad were living in East Greenwich. (For those of you who are keeping track, was after Pennsylvania; Dallas; San Francisco; Grand Prairie, TX; Cleveland; St. Louis; Pensacola; and Mobile and before Monterey; Annapolis; Kingston, RI; and Silver Spring.)

I heard a reference this morning on NPR to "California University of Pennsylvania." Except that it's closer to Pittsburgh than it is to the ocean (oceans being two of the three locations in the Navy's version of the real estate mantra "location, location, location"), Mom and Dad could have lived there and she could have attended that school. Had she decided to go on for a Ph.D., she could have matriculated somewhere like SUNY at Stonybrook, so that she would have had both an "of" and "at," though she'd lose that "not where you think it is" part.

Is there a university or college that isn't where you think it is, but has two or more prepositions in it's name? Something like University of the Pacific at Omaha in South Carolina. Because that would be the place to go. Just picture what the sweatshirts would look like with all of their footnotes and such.

It's not just a headache

I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, I admit. I've had a nagging pain in my left arm and shoulder for a couple of months now and one of the explanations I've come up with for it is that I - clearly - have bone cancer. Well, probably not. Of course, a pain that hangs around for this long probably should be checked out, so I'll make an appointment with my GP because maybe it's something he can fix right there in the office. Or maybe he'll refer me to a therapeutic masseuse, which would be even better.

(For the vast number of shoulder and left arm pain experts among the devoted readership, it feels like it's in the muscle (sort of) and it hurts when I try to touch my left arm to my right shoulder, reach behind my back to unhook my bra, or stand with my arm around someone's waist as we do before every performance of Boy Gets Girl.* I can't sleep on my left side because that hurts. Some nights I need to prop my arm with a pillow or it will hurt. And it randomly hurts with a sharp pain. Sometimes the pain hangs around for a while and sometimes it disappears quickly. Sometimes it feels like is a muscle sometimes not. See? Probably bone cancer. Or a pinched nerve. Or osteoporosis. Or the vapors.)

But for the real hypochondriac, the sort of person who never thinks "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing," there's always the internet. Via AOL WebMD provides the sort of health news that Brett dislikes in local tv news, what he calls "Scare You News," like "Tonight on Scare You News: Can using the ATM harm your family?" And today in WebMD Scare You Health News, we have 7 Pains You Shouldn't Ignore, but which should really be called "You're Gonna Diiiieeeeee." Because the classic example of hypochondria is, of course, that it's not a headache, it's an aneurysm and that's the first thing they discribe. These guys should write for House.

I read through all seven pains and, of course, have had pretty much all of them in the last couple of weeks. Hell, I seem to major in vague, undefined pain. So I'm just a goner. Good thing I updated my will recently. Especially as each of these is the sort of thing that GPs aren't going to get all that excited about unless they are faithful readers of WebMD. Well, except for maybe the chest pain stuff.

That's not to say that one should not follow up on something that seems to be amiss (says the woman who wandered around for a week on a sprained ankle), but I think WebMD might be shooting with a larger caliber than is actually required here. But in terms of ramping up the hysteria, I'd have to give them a 10.

*We gather into a circle before we go to places and do a little chant, which I needn't repeat here because it's only meaningful to us. I hope. Well, the other day in order find a way to stay in the circle but not wince all the time because my arm hurt, I kept shifting how I was holding my arm. This pretty much resulted in my accidentally groping Tommy. Which is no bad thing, but if I'm going to grope Tommy, it should be on purpose, you know?

Journey to Boston

I like Journey. I do. I love songs like "Lights," and "Anyway you want it," and "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'," and, of course, "Be Good to Yourself." But then, I also like The Patridge Family, so I know that I am not the last word in music appreciation.

David does not Journey, but he does like Boston. For quite some time, anytime he would mention Boston, I would laugh and he would think that I was laughing at him and deriding his musical taste. And while that is always possible, it wasn't the case. I also like Boston. I was laughing, well, yes, at him, I suppose, but laughing because liking Boston while sneering at Journey is pretty much like liking Happy Gilmore while sneering at The Waterboy. It's not like Journey is Happy Gilmore and Boston is Punch-Drunk Love or anything here. (Although, considering Journey's eminence in the power ballad area, maybe Punch-Drunk Love and The Wedding Singer would be a better comparison. But I digress.) And when I pointed this out to Beej and Stacey, they not only agreed, but Beej was able to add Kansas to the that particular set. (Set as in "an interesting exercise in set theory" not set as in "and we'll play another set after we smoke a lot of cigarettes and down a lot of Scotch.)

So one could have sets of sets, like [Journey, Boston, Kansas]; [The Beatles, The Who, The Rolling Stones]; [Rick Springfield, Shaun Cassidy, Bobby Sherman]; etc. Hmmm. I have stuff recorded by all of these guys.....

Anyway, one of our local classic rock radio stations is doing the lunchtime requests and today's theme is songs that have people's names in them. (Which means that we just got to hear the World's Most Perfect Rock Song - Bruce Springsteen's Rosalita. Ahhhhhhhhh.) So someone just called in and requested (and here I quote) " "Amanda" by Journey or Boston."

Which pretty much shows that liking the one group while making fun of the other is like liking red M&Ms while laughing at the tan ones.

Lay off the horn

Someone downstairs - someone 8 floors below me - someone 8 floors below me and across an intersection - is annoyed by someone else. So he's laying on the horn. For half a minute at a time.

Which means he is annoyed by the guy in front of him. And everyone within the sound of his horn is annoyed with him. It's impressive how loud a horn still sounds from a distance of an intersection and 8 floors. Admittedly, our windows aren't well soundproofed, but even so. And car horns, like unhappy-small-babies-that-you-don't-personally-know-but-who-are-on-your-plane-with-you, are really hard not to hear. Kind of piercing sounds, really, and for about the same reason: to let everyone nearby know that there is something wrong or something about to be wrong so that - with luck - the right person, the person who can do something about it, will also hear the sound and be motivated to act.

Well, I'm motivated to act right now, but not in a good way. I'm motivated to get Mr. Noisy Horn's tag information, track him to his lair, and key his vehicle.

I'm not actually going to do it, of course, but I'd like to.

Autumn!

In the spring-time seed is sown,
In the summer grass is mown
In the autumn you may reap
Winter is the time for sleep.

Spring is hope -- Summer’s joy
Spring and summer never cloy.
Autumn, toil -- Winter, rest
Winter, after all, is best.

Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, aye, and winter too.
Every season has its cheer,
Life is lovely all the year!

W.S. Gilbert, Ruddigore

We are now in Mid-October, which, besides being birthday time for a lot of friends and family, is when Maryland finally decides to acknowledge autumn. The daytime temperatures have dropped out of the 70s and 80s and into the 60s and there was a bit of frost on the car this morning.

I love all the seasons, but over time autumn is starting to take the lead. I love the explosive new growth of spring, the hot sun on my skin in the summer, and snow in the winter. Of course, loving snow is easy around here because we don’t get that much of it, so it remains a novelty. We get a couple of one- or two-inch dusters and at least one foot-and-half or greater snow dump every winter, which comes pretty close to meeting my snow needs for the year.

And the seasons have their downsides. My car is black, so getting into it in the summer means not be able to touch things until the A/C kicks in. Spring waits for you to plan outdoor activities and then dumps really cold rain on them. Winter snow is always followed by winter ice and I hate ice. I also hate being cold, which I am all winter long, even when I remember to wear a coat or gloves or anything like that.

But in autumn, the breeze is crisp, the leaves are hundreds of colors, the sky looks as though it were painted by Turner, and migrating birds poppyseed the air. It’s fun to eat hot food outside and wear sweaters and drink hot chocolate. And the peasant-y sorts of food that I love – root vegetables and stews and sausage – take a front seat in the autumn.

I’m fickle when it comes to the seasons. Just as my favorite show is whichever I happen to be working on, my favorite season is the one that’s just starting. So it’s entirely possible that I’ll write a similar paean to winter when it sets in here in January.

It's not like we have already have a mascot or anything

I was chatting with one of our new hires this morning when a dark little shape caught my eye. A biggish spider was scurrying across a wall and when she* noticed that we noticed her, she jumped off the wall and tried to blend in with the corporate blue carpet. (And, to be fair, she blended in a lot better than I would have.) So I grabbed a disposable cup and a paper towel from the kitchen, knelt down, and put the cup near her - preparatory to putting it over her - when she jumped into it. I praised her and would have given her a spider treat (if I'd had any) and covered the top of the cup with the paper towel.

As none of my co-workers wanted to admire our newest acquisition (average response: "Ewwww - no!"), I carried her downstairs, took her outside, and walked over to the shrubs. I gently turned the cup upside downish and set it down so that she could scurry out of her improvised cell. Instead, she came gingerly to the edge of the cup, looked at the wild, untamed suburbia, and scuttled immediately back to the farthest reaches of the cup. She doesn't speak much English, but I clearly understood her meaning: "Oh, no thanks. I don't want to be here. I want to go back upstairs." So I felt kind of bad about dumping her out of the cup and returning to the office, but what could I do?

And anyway, removing spiders and other miniature fauna has always been my job. When I was a teenager, Sara and Mom were the sort to hop from foot to foot and make girly distress noises while I got a jar or something and piece of cardboard and escorted the terrifying predator to the border for deportation.


*No, I didn't check her ID or absolutely determine her sex, but be real. Everyone knows that all spiders are female and named Charlottte.

A persuasive argument

From Brad Hathaways's review of 12 Angry Men, currently running at the Kennedy Center:

The audience enters to see the set on the stage, violating what should be a cardinal rule of theater: never dispense with a curtain. Not only does it rob the audience of that valuable moment when the world outside yields to the world on stage, it lets critics examine the space at close range and notice things like the Kleenex box with a design not yet adopted in the 1950s.

Lacing my sneakers again

In years past I have participated in the Multiple Sclerosis walk, an 8-mile jaunt down the C&O canal towpath. I raised, all told, probably about $2,500 to help fight a disease that has made my Mom's life much more difficult.

I won't give all the info on MS here (although you can find it here), but I think by now we all understand how debilitating MS can be. And in addition to Mom, my cousin Kathy, my friend Greykell, and others I know deal with the effects of MS everyday.

Mom and I used to do the walk together, back when that was still possible for her.

One year I did the walk the day after opening night of a show. I got up bright and early, did the walk, went home and put my feet up for a bit, then went to the theater and did the show in 3" heels.

And one year the walk was scheduled the same day as Maureen's wedding, so I arrived at the start at Great Falls at 8:00 AM, walked the 8 miles, met Les at the end point at Glen Echo at 10:15, changed in the ladies room into wedding guest wear, and Les and I sped off across two counties to be at Maureen's wedding by 11:00.

A few years ago, Stacey and some other friends formed Team Greykell and registered for the Big Walk - the MS Challenge 3-Day Walk. If there's one in your area, you've heard the ads on the radio: "3 Days, 50 Miles, Closer to a Cure." Here in 2006 they are still going strong and this year, I'm joining them. I can't do the whole walk, but I can volunteer for a day. I'm taking September 29th off of work and volunteering for Day 1 of the walk. Doing what, I don't yet know, but doing something.

And I'd like your support. Team Greykell has a fund-raising challenge and as a member of Team Greykell, I'm now part of that challenge. Mom has written a check and I contributed to Cate's share of the challenge before I decided to join the team, but the MS folks would like me to raise $1,500 (or, of course, more). If you can't send money, I'll happily accept good wishes. But money is always nice....

r.i.c.e.

You'd think that considering what a hypochondriac I am, this would have been taken care a lot sooner. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong.

Over Labor Day weekend David and I went to the Kennedy Center's Page-to-Stage New Play festival, which was great fun. We got to hear some plays get read that will be in full productions later on in the year and make some notes as to which ones we should try especially hard to see. At some point in the weekend, I noticed that my foot would randomly hurt. Nothing awful, it just .... hurt. I would grimace and limp for a second or two and then it would stop hurting and I'd mostly forget about it. It didn't hurt a lot. It sort of felt as though someone had snapped a rubber band on the top of my foot.

I figured that it would go away on its own and went about my business. The twinges got more frequent and began to hurt more, as though the rubber band were being snapped harder, but I persisted in believing that this would resolve on its own.

The following weekend I drove up to New Jersey to sing a lot of Gilbert and Sullivan, which (the singing, not the driving) is like eight hours at the seaside. I wore my cute medium-heeled sandals, although I kicked them off quite a bit and went barefoot because it was that kind of day. Not too many twinges that weekend as I was seated a lot from Friday afternoon when I left to Sunday morning when I got back. There was probably a twinge any time I walked more than 100 or so paces.

By Monday the twinges were coming any time I walked *anywhere* - like the 50 paces to the kitchen at my office and I began to dither about what I should do about it. So I told my supervisor that I might go to the doctor in the afternoon, but I was deeply ambivalent about which doctor I should see - was this bone related and I should go an osteopath? Should I see my GP? How about the emergency room? Wouldn't one of my regular doctors want to make an appointment three weeks away? What if this became a crisis before then? It was getting worse, after all. I was beginning to suspect that at some point my ankle would give way during a twinge, which seemed like a bad idea. Dither, dither, and more dither.

On Tuesday I came to my senses and went to the Emergency Room, even though I was afraid that they would find nothing wrong and think that I am an idiot. (I am, but that's not the point here.) If going to the ER is something that you have any flexibility about, go on a Tuesday afternoon. I got there around 3:00 and was out before 4:00. The ER triage nurse shunted me off to a PA who took me up to imaging where I had an X-ray in the hospital's brand new shiny imaging center.

I was sent out to wait for a few minutes (always bring your current script to the emergency room as it is an excellent time to run your lines) and then my PA came out and told me that I had a sprained ankle. I completely didn't expect that because when people on television have sprained ankles they can't put their weight on them. And the ankles are swollen and stuff. I realize that basing anything on the people on television is a pretty silly thing to do, but it seems that I had done it.

As I pondered the fact that I'd just spent several days walking around on a sprained ankle, including a several-hour stint in heels, he said the good news was that no bones were broken but they looked kind of thin on the X-ray. I went kind of cold and stammered that I have a malabsorbtion disorder and that osteoporosis is strongly tied to Celiac disease while the type of klaxons that you have in WWII movies or Star Trek: The Next Generation starting running in my head.

You see, the only reason that I stick to my boring, annoying, no-pizza-for-Leta diet is because I don't want Osteoporosis or Lymphoma.

And before you ask, everyone I've told this too has suggested that I start taking calcium supplements. I've been taking them for about the last 15 years. So thanks, but yeah, I've got that covered.

An RN wrapped my ankle and told me I should keep it wrapped until it felt better, which is sort of difficult because when it's not twinging, it feels just fine. So I've decided that once I go 24 hours with no twinges, I'll ditch the Ace bandage, which itches like anything. Several folks at the hospital asked me how I sprained it and my answer was --- I dunno. And I don't. I have no idea. I didn't trip over anything or turn my ankle or make some unexpected left turn while walking forward. I have no clue how I did this.

So the RN was explaining what I should do which I summarized with the RICE acronym: rest, ice, compression, and elevation. The Ace bandage provides the compression and I'm supplying the rest by spending more time on the couch with my feet up.

It still twinges but the twinges are now very mild compared to what they were this past Tuesday. I don't wince and limp when one happens, I just frown and mentally reset the 24-hour twinge clock.

I'll probably have to follow up with my GP if it's not better pretty soon. Or rather, very soon.

And that bone density test that my Gastroenterologist recommended has moved from the "yeah, I should do that sometime" to "I need to schedule this for some time soon" pile. Sigh.

How she knows me

Last night I went to see "The Baby Dance," which Sara Joy directed, and in which McCall and Kim and Brian were performing. (Good production - yay, team!) Kim's cute daughter number 2 (Deanna) was serving as an usher and program hander-outer and when she recognized me hanging around the lobby, motioned me over. We got caught up (she's just started 4th grade, yeah, it's fun) and then she recognized her teacher. Being a young lady of good manners, Deanna began to introduce us.

"This is my teacher! And this is Leta! I know her from .... shows."

Which I thought was an impressively good save for a 9-year-old. During that ellipsis she must have mentally run through the entire catalogue of shows her extended family had participated in (a very large number - she is 3rd generation Theater-American) and come up blank because I've never actually shared a stage with anyone she is related to by blood or marriage. I'm sure Iwill someday, but I haven't yet, and until that day comes, Deanna has her useful answer to how she knows me.

How to smell really bad

This worked for the parking garage at my office and it can work for yours.

1. Round up a bunch of willing sea animals, like shrimps, crabs, etc. If there are no shrimps, crabs, etc. you can substitute squirrels, raccoons, and the like.

2. Set out a tub of old, warm mayonnaise and let them treat it like a hot tub for several hours.

3. After they get terribly, terribly ill, throw up a lot, and die, transfer the mayo, animals, and animal barf to a quiet corner of the garage near one of the air handlers.

Et voila!

I can't absolutely swear that's what happened at my office, but it's exactly what it smells like in the garage. In fact, we are assuming that some poor, small animal did crawl into some obsure part of the air handler and die. At its height, I tried to avoid breathing during the short walk to my car but I'd still end up feeling neauseated by the time I had the engine on.

Oddly enough, something similar happened in a house that Mollie and I rented a few years ago. The little addition that we used as an office developed a really bad smell and we couldn't figure out what it was. (Apparently, we had lived lives that were far too sheltered up 'til then.) Eventually my fried Russell happened to be in the house after a rehearsal and identified the problem nearly immediately. He and I walked around outside and found the area over the addition where a few discrete slate roof tiles had broken off, allowing small animal access.

I called the landlord the next day and reported both the dead animal issue and the hole in the roof. They promised to have someone over by the end of the week to deal with it (All together now: Yeah, right.)

I'd call every few days to no avail. Eventually as the corpse in the crawlspace dessicated (this takes rather a while), the smell went away. And not long after that we got some seasonal rains. When I noticed a patch of mold in a picture hanging on the wall approximately under the missing tiles, I called again and pointed out that water was getting into the house. And that as the house did not belong to me, it would be no skin off my nose if portions of the wall would eventually have to be rebuilt. Workmen were there by the end of the week. I'm pretty sure that they made no effort to retrieve the poor mummified little critter, but just permanently entombed him there as they replaced the roof tiles.

So I really hope that the building guys here find whatever is making the garage so odiferous and dispose of it appropriately.

And I'll keep walking very quickly to the car.

How to drop your productivity

Wander over to this website.

I found it, oddly enough, while checking a quote about Richard III (the king, not the play). I think my favorite page on the site has to be What Makes a Bad Calendar just because of "We are trying very hard to be reasonable in the face of complete, planet-wide lapses into idiocy" tone.

I'm greatly enjoying the calendar rants, of course, but what is especially fun for me is the Ricardianism. Not many software companies have as many Richard III facts on their site as these people do. Not to mention that Richard's obituary ("that King Richard, late mercifully reigning upon us, was through great treason of the duke of Norfolk and many others that turned against him, with many other lords and nobles of this north parts, was piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city." - York Civic Records) is hidden in the site and his picture appears at the top of "This Day in History" page. And they included my favorite portrait of Richard in the "This Day" banner.

Hours and hours I could spend here. But I probably shouldn't.

The miracle of the rose

Before one of the Winslow Boy performaces, Chris gave each of us a lovely yellow-with-dark-pink-streaks rose, which I took home and plunked in a vase and put in my bedroom. My usual routine with flowers is too keep them until they dry out and then toss them in the compost where they will rejoin the great circle of plant life.

I used to keep a "rose mortuary" - all the rose heads in a big bowl - but it turns out that if the humidity levels tips the wrong way, a rose mortuary can turn pretty darn rank, which really drops the romance to a pretty sad level.

Anyway, Chris's rose dried very nicely and was still in its vase one day a couple of weeks ago when I was doing some cleaning and it seemed the right time to compost the little guy. As I was carrying the vase from my bedroom to the kitchen, I noticed that the stem had dried so thoroughly that it had turned black. Or, rather, was starting to turn black starting at the flower and heading south and starting at the bottom and heading north. I'm used to seeing very dark green stems and flowers that are so dark red that they look black, but I don't remember seeing a truly black stem before.

Well, just as I was going to dump the water down the drain and cut the rose into small pieces to fit into my little compost bin in the freezer ... The Miracle of the Rose was revealed unto me. I noticed that just below the black area was a tiny new twig/leaf, maybe a half-inch long, with the leaf being nearly doll-house small. As one is supposed to do when a miracle is revealed unto one, I stood there slack-jawed and stared at it. I tried very, very hard to find some kind of resemblance to an important religious figure or the even more important Elvis, but such was denied to me. The new growth looked like --- a twig and a leaf. I checked the bottom of the stem and there were two itsy-bitsy-teensy-weensy little roots. But actual roots!

So while acting very casual, so as not to scare the rose, I decided to see if it would really grow if I continued to give it the same "care" as I had provided before. I rinsed out the vase and put the rose in a small (but clean, something the vase could not in good conscience claim at that point) water glass with enough water to cover the root-ettes and put it on the bookcase in the dining room window where it will receive some (mostly indirect) sun everyday.

There's already a geranium there that the neighborhood church gave me when I moved into the condo, and it seems to be a pretty plant-friendly window. The Chinese Evergreen that I brought back from the near-dead spent many happy months convalescing on that bookcase. (It was nearly dead because it didn't enjoy its first few months in the condo, probably because I did something stupid with it.)

And just as I was thinking "I'll leave the dried petals on because they're still pretty," I slightly knocked the rose against the little shelf over the sink and each and every petal fell off. Such is the gentle humor of the rose.

For now, the rose seems pretty happy on the bookcase. The roots remain pretty tiny but the black has stopped and now there are more twigs and leaves.

Any day now I will start dithering about what, if anything, I should add to the water. One of those packets of cut flower food that one gets with cut flowers? Rooting solution? (I think I have some. Maybe.) I don't have a handy willow tree to make "willow water," but the chemical in question is also in aspirin, so maybe I should drop a ground-up aspirin in the water? Or maybe I should just stick it in some potting soil and pop a plastic bag over it so that visitors will think that I don't know that plastic bags are not toys. Hmmmm.

If any of you out there are reading this and thinking "no, no, no, you silly girl, you'll kill it that way" and have a better suggestion or two, I'd love to hear them.

If the rose remains alive and leafy, it will join the other long-term residents of the container garden on the patio next spring. Maybe one day it will bloom.

And the next time I'm home, I'll play Cyndi Lauper's cover of "La vie en rose" to encourage the little thing. Or maybe even track down Edith Piaf's original for extra encouragement.

And life will always be la vie en rose.....

Now it's part of my process

I've been a Law and Order junkie for several years now. I'm pretty much commited to Classic L&O, but will watch L&O Sport Utility Vehicle now and again, so I'm familiar with Det. Olivia Benson as well as Lt. Anita Van Buren. And now I can put all that to good use. I've been cast as Detective Madeleine Beck in the Vienna Theatre Company's production of Boy Gets Girl.

"Beck" is in pretty much two scenes, so I'll have lots of time backstage to catch up on my reading. And because Andrea, who played Catherine Winslow, when I had a similarly-sized role in The Winslow Boy, is playing has-lines-on-every-damn-page Theresa, I can greet her the same way I did for our last outing together: <singsong> "You have to memorize more lines than me! Nah nah nee nah nah!"</singsong>.

But the take-away from this is that I'm now watching Law and Order as part of my research.

My last three directors have asked me not to cut my hair and it is now half-way down my back. I happy keep it this length or cut it, but the choice is Chuck's. I'm even willing to get the cut that Mariska Hargitay sports, even though it will require more hair maintenance each day than I normally do in a week.

Cha-chunk.

How to please (some) bartenders

After seeing her in Lisa's Jill Kills at the DC Fringe festival last Monday, the Permanently Delightful Sally invited us out for a drink. We got ensconced in the very high backed love seats at the Poste Bar in the Hotel Monaco and Sally went to fetch the refreshers. I asked for a Sidecar, which seemed especially appropriate in that setting, but named a back-up drink just in case. Lo and behold! Sally returned with my Sidecar, sugar rim and all, and said that the bartender was very happy to get to make something out of the ordinary. Apparently, anyone can toss a 3-to-1, mixer-to-booze drink in a glass over ice and add a stir-straw, but it takes a mixologist to make a cocktail. Of course, the downside to my having a Sidecar is probably the sight of me licking the sugar off of the glass like a little kid, but I do that with Margaritas anyway, so people are used to it by now. And, as it turned out, the young lady playing Jill is also working tending bar these days, so she made sure to ask me what was in the glass and mentally filed it away for future use.

It may be getting too easy. Next time out I'll have to ask for a French Revolution.

Rollo

Dad sent the following "all hands" e-mail (below) to the family and some friends. Rollo was a very friendly, happy dog who made all comers welcome in his home. He was a good guy and we'll miss him. Several of my good friends have older dogs and we all know that even the best-loved pets don't live forever - except in our hearts.

* * * * *

Hey Folks!

I'm sure that most of you have already heard the sad news but I wanted to include all in this note. It was a sad day last week when we realized that the time had come to do the last right thing for Rollo, our friend of over 16 years. It was even sadder on Friday when we took him to the Vet. I hoped that he would just not wake up one morning but that was not to be.

Poor Ole Rollo has been going downhill for a while. He was almost blind from cataracts. He did not hear very well except when I was opening a cookie package. Many days he chose to sleep late rather than get up and ask for breakfast. Lately he has had trouble getting up and down stairs. His back end was becoming less and less reliable. He fell down the stairs a few time while we were away. But 16 is really old for Golden Retriever-almosts and so he got a full measure of life.

It was a healthy and happy life almost always. He was seldom at the Vet's except for the annual maintenance work. He did get shot in the back way back when we lived on the Farm. The bullet was still there when he passed on because the Vet thought that it was too close to his spinal cord to risk removal . Probably some kid with a new rifle getting a lucky (or unlucky, depending on point of view) hit on a long range shot, probably a .22.

And so, let me tell you about Rollo and his life with us at the Farm and here in Martinsburg. He showed up one day when Bill was visiting before he went to Africa with the Peace Corps. Probably was dropped off down by the elementary school at the end of our lane by somebody who figured that some kid would take him home with him/her. We had two dogs at the time, Topper, a Great Dane, and Sunny II a Great Dane-Doberman mix. Bill named him Rollo and kept bringing him into the house at feeding time. At the time, I was consulting and had a lot of early morning meetings with clients that were impossible to manage from the Farm and so I had an apartment in Rockville that served as both office and sleep-over place. I usually went in on Monday AM and came home on Friday PM. The first time I came home after Rollo's arrival, I asked Audrey about the new dog. We had discussed dogs before that and agreed that two were enough, maybe more than plenty. She told me about him showing up and her trying to find the owners. She thought that he might wander on and not hang around the Farm. I asked her why she was feeding him and she replied that she could not, in good conscience, feed the other two and leave him hungry. I thought a long minute, and seeing the hand-writing on the Wall, I asked her with a serious face and voice, "How much food do you think it will take to drive him off?" I got one of those Audrey looks that suggested my supper might be in danger. And so Rollo had found a home and, in fact, was at home!

He took up residence under the kitchen table where he could be part of the action but never in the way. Eventually Audrey put a small rug under the kitchen table for him. New visitors often looked a bit quizzical on seeing the rug, especially if Rollo was not on it at the time. It soon became a fixture in our kitchen and Rollo spent a lot of time there.

Rollo was a very smart dog and, in some ways, an alpha personality. He wanted to be in charge but, as long as Topper was around, he was Second Banana at best. Sunny II was a shy lady and did not want to run anything more than her own life and sometimes, not that. After Topper passed on, we rescued Chevy Chase, an out-of-control black Great Dane. He ate 150 feet of garden hose at one sitting and committed various other acts of destruction during his early days with us. We tried several methods of training him but none worked very well until we bought one of those electrical collars with the remote button. The first time Audrey put it on him, he ran off like he always did but Audrey, being alert, pushed her button when he was about a hundred yards away. He went straight up, yelped once, and scooted back to Audrey and hid behind her legs. He went from Outlaw to Christian in one fell swoop. It took a couple of other minor lessons but the deed was done. Now Rollo, having been in charge during the time between Toppers death and Chevy's arrival, was not ready to let go his position, regardless of Chevy's size. Besides Chevy was, in his heart, so gentle that he would not contest much of anything. It soon became clear that Rollo was the Big Dog, even though he was the little dog. And all was well in the pecking order.

We always kept a lot of chew toys around the house so that Chevy could have something besides a chair to chew on if he chose to chew. Rollo had never been a chewer at all before Chevy arrived. But now, if Chevy chewed, Rollo chewed, at least most of the time. Besides that, Rollo decided that the house was too messy with Chevy's chew toys scattered all over the place. He would often go around the house, pick up all the toys, one at a time, carry them into the dining room, make a pile of them, and sit on the pile. Chevy would cry and whine until somebody would take some off Rollo's pile and give them to Chevy. But after Chevy get tired of chewing, Rollo would go get them and put them back in his pile.

One day we were sitting in the kitchen, Chevy was chewing on some toy and Rollo decided that he wanted that toy. So after trying to snatch it away a few times he went off and sat for a bit. Then he jumped up, ran to the front door, and barked enthusiastically. This was the usual signal that somebody had driven up to the door. And so we, Audrey, Chevy, and me, went to the front door to greet our guests, whomever they might be. As soon as we were on the way to the door, Rollo turned and dashed past us, grabbed the toy in question, and hauled it off to a corner for his own chewing pleasure. He was settled in the corner before we got the front door open and saw that nobody was there. We saw immediately that we (all three) had been had. He did the same thing again a few days later so we were sure that it was planned, not random.

Rollo always tried to do what he thought we wanted him to do. If we could explain what we wanted he was more than happy to do it. When I used to go road-walking in the mornings after I left full-time work at MITRE, there were lots of cars on the road. I taught him "Car-Sit!" which meant that a car was coming and he was to sit where he was until I called "Car Gone!" He was smart enough to add the first part which was "Get out of the Road" if appropriate although he was seldom in the road when we walked. He loved to roll in the snow and would seek out the remaining snow piles as the weather warmed up after a storm. Chevy ate snow but Rollo just rolled in it and used it as a back-scratcher. He also never saw a creek that he did not want to get into and stand belly-deep. Not a problem with that but getting out usually meant a fair amount of mud coming with him. I could not find a sandy bottom creek for him to wade in. Audrey's view of creek-walking might be a tad different from mine.

He also had a thing about groundhogs. He went after every one he saw and actually killed quite a few himself and a few more with Chevy's help. I did not attempt to dissuade him because groundhogs dig holes, in pastures, that break horse's legs. One time we were walking through the peach orchard and came across the granddaddy of all groundhogs. That dude was bigger than a basketball when he curled up against a tree, ready to fight. They fight by getting their teeth going like a buzz saw and anything that gets near their mouth gets ground up like a hamburger. Well, Rollo was ready to go after him because it was right there in his job description, "Kill all Groundhogs!" I grabbed his collar and pulled him away, explaining that there would not be any honor to be gained in that fight, that if he won all there was to win, he would still come out poorly. As we moved away (not a retreat but an advance in another direction!!), Ole Groundhog scooted for his hole and we never saw him again. I figured that we surprised him and he was too far away to get into his hole and would not entertain the idea of a running fight with Rollo. So he put his back to the tree and got ready to do or die right there. After I explained the cost-benefit relationship to Rollo a couple of times he saw the wisdom and agreed that there would be better opportunities later on. He said that ties go to the guy who has a nifty collar to wear.

The only exception to him doing what we wanted was barking at trucks, particularly red pick-up trucks, which, for some unknown reason, were anathema to him. They say that dogs are colorblind but Rollo knew a red pick-up when he saw one. This trait dissipated when we moved to Martinsburg, at least largely. Two of our frequent visitors drive red pick-ups and those did not bother him. Don't know what happened to him early on to cause his dislike of red pick-up trucks.

He always got sad when we got the suitcases out for a trip. We tried to pack when he was asleep because he moped around so much after he saw suitcases. He was also exceedingly happy when we came home. The time we were away in England and Africa for five weeks, he was beside himself when we packed. On the day we got home he almost turned cartwheels, he was so happy that his people were home where they belonged and he could keep an eye on them to keep them out of trouble. His Job Description again!!

As he got older, Rollo became more sedentary but even in the past few months, there were times that he ran and frisked like a puppy. He learned which of our visitors could be mooched for a biscuit and, as soon as they walked in, they became his "very best friend" of the moment, at least until he got his biscuit. Then he would pick out his next target. He was a help to me when I was trying to lose some weight because, if I got a snack, he would come sit in front of me with those pitiful eyes asking for a share, his share of my treat. I sometimes skipped the snack just knowing that he would beg, beg, beg and Audrey had convinced me that people food was not good for him, said the Vet.

The last few months were hard for the old gentleman. He had good days and bad days. He couldn't catch biscuits anymore because of his cataracts. However, he did not appear to be very upset when he missed, he just set out to find the biscuit on the floor. He never seemed to be embarrassed when he was unable to perform, he just tried again until he succeeded and then went on with whatever he was doing. Rollo was always a gentleman in every sense of the word. We all could do a whole lot worse than to take him for a role model for how to live a gracious, elegant life. We will all miss him very much and I hope that he has found a fine kitchen table to lie under where he can be involved with the action but never in the way, a place where doggie biscuits and people snacks can be found in great abundance, where there are toys to stack and guard and friendly dogs like Chevy, Topper, and Sunny II to trail around with, and where snow lies in piles to roll in and get his back scratched. Maybe I'll find him again some time, some day!

Love to All of You,
Charlie

Mom's not the only one

After writing my post about Mom's baseball history, I found this story.

Kind of my own Wikipedia

When Ed was supplying me with helpful baseball facts, he paused at one point and said "I think that's right...I'm not positive..." and he looked a little concerned because there are many things you can make mistakes about and still think well of yourself, but misleading people about baseball statistics is just wrong.

"Oh, don't worry - if you don't get something right, someone'll leave a comment correcting it."

You see: I count on you guys. I really do.

My Mom the Fan

One day after my mother's family had moved from Grand Prairie, Texas to Cleveland, when she was about 13, Mom was asked by a classmate to ask my grandmother to write a note excusing her from school the next day. "What for?" Mom asked. "To attend Opening Day!" her classmate told her.

Mom did ask her mother, who did write the note. (Clearly, my grandmother was more permissive back then. I can't imagine that she would have written that note for me. But that's not the point.)

Mom got to go Opening Day at Cleveland Stadium (this was before Jacobs Field) and was part of a crowd of over 70,000 people. She had a wonderful time: she loved the breeze off of Lake Erie, the smell of the beautiful green grass, and the skillful - and famous! - players. (This was the Spring of 1950, for the baseball history fans. She remembers Early Wynn, Bob Feller, Mike Garcia, and Bob Lemon, especially.)

By the end of the summer, Mom was completed hooked. When school started in the fall, she tasked my grandmother with listening to the games and keeping score so that Mom could keep up with the Indians. Gram said that she didn't know how to keep score, but there's no denying my mother when she is determined, so Mom taught her how in half an hour.

There were a lot of day games back then, so Gram got lots of practice keeping score and Mom would come home to find a complete record of the game waiting for her. In the process, Gram also became a fan and remained one for the rest of her life. Gram died in 2002, so that's 52 years of rooting for the Indians. Three penants (1954, 1995, and 1997) but, alas, no World Series Championships.

Mom just missed a chance to have rooted them to a World Series win because they did beat the Boston Braves in '48. Mom's friend Ed (my source for the Indians' history) says that they were heading for a Series win in '94 but the stupid strike ended that chance.

For her sophomore year in college, Mom transferred from Miami University in Ohio to Washington University in St. Louis. Her folks had already moved to St. Louis and her father had attended Wash U, so it was pretty much fated. Anyway, Mom says that she could walk down the street and follow the games from the radios she could hear through the open windows and from the porches.

Ed says that Mom is still a devoted fan and listens to all the games on the radio and yells out the scores to him.

So when I root for baseball teams, I root for the Nats and Orioles, my local teams; the Indians, Mom's and Gram's team; and the Cardinals,the family's historical team because if we are from anywhere, we are from St. Louis. And, by the way, so are the Orioles - in 1954 the St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore and became the Orioles. What happened to the previous Orioles, I hear you cry? They moved to New York and eventually became ... the dreaded Yankees.

Imperiling our geezer cred

David and I watched what I called the epilogue to "The Office" last night and while he was getting the DVD loaded, a video was finishing up on whatever channel he'd left the cable. After a few seconds, I asked "Is that Nick Lachey?" David thought it was and a few seconds after that the end credit for the video confirmed it.

While I am certainly disturbed that I could recognize the former Mr. Simpson, the really scary part is that I did it in under 5 seconds. It takes me longer than that to recognize some of my relatives.

I'm thinking that I'll have to put in some time getting back into my geezer zone - I'll work on saying things like "these kids today!" and "back when I was a girl..." (as though I had been rendered gender-neutral during the great march of time).

Nick Lachey. Good grief.

Parent Clean

There are many kinds of clean, as we all know. My most consistent is the sort of clean that's attained by tidying up on weekends if I'm home. (A big "if," I'll grant you.) I guess that's my Baseline Clean. If the basket is full, the laundry gets done; the trash gets collected and taken out; the carpet gets vacuumed; clean clothes get put away; stray papers (I seem to be a magnet for stray papers) get collected and put .... oh, somewhere; maybe the sheets get changed; Pekoe gets brushed; plants get watered; the patio gets weeded; the compost gets emptied; the recyclables get taken to the bin; the bathrooms get cleaned; etc. If I'm feeling extra energetic, the kitchen, bathroom, and entryway floors gets washed. I can do a pretty good Baseline Clean in a couple of hours, which is one of the things I like about living in a smaller place.

The other two extremes that I am likely to encounter are Tech Week Dirty and Parent Clean. Tech Week Dirty means that things (clothes, shoes, junk) got dumped onto the nearest flat surface when I came in; mail has piled up but dishes haven't because if I'm living at a theater, I'm certainly not cooking at home; Pekoe feels neglected; and - a given - somewhere in my condo is a half cup of tea that has gone moldy. (Tea is possibly an even better growing medium for mold than PDA.)

Parent Clean, on the other hand, is that blessed state where even the dusting is done. Clutter has been dealt with. Surfaces sparkle or gleam as appropriate. The condo is largier, arier, smells good, and somehow has its own Mozart-y Haydn-y maybe even Bach-y sound design*. Absolutely nothing in the home makes one's parents suspect that they've raised a slattern.

On the morning of a Sunday matinee for The Winslow Boy, I had to try to take the condo from Tech Week Dirty to Parent Clean. I didn't completely succeed, but at least we got to Baseline Clean and when you consider that I was already rehearsing another show and had recently taken a third show out of town, that's no small feat. No dusting happened and precious little vacuuming, but the flat surfaces were clear and my folks could be taken on the tour. You see, this was Dad and Audrey's first visit chez moi. They live about 80 miles from me and have a dog that is pretty old, so what with one thing and another, they'd never been here.

I gave them the big tour (wear comfy shoes!) which can take as long as 3 minutes if there's a big crowd, showing off my favorite bits of the condo, like the pantry (where my washer-dryer lives) that is actually pantry sized, so that my canned goods have more elbow room that I have, and the nice view of the soccer field across the road, and my patio.

Audrey and I discussed how my putting the dining table and chairs in the alcove instead of the "dining room" made sense (there is enough room for either the table & chairs or the china cabinet & buffet). We also discussed the bent wood rocker that I keep in the dining room so that someone visiting me can sit comfortably while I do food prep. The caned seat had separated from the frame and Audrey suggested that I show it to Dad to see if he could fix it. I did and, after a pause, he told me that it was beyond repair and said, "You know, if you really like this chair, I'd throw it out and buy one that looks like it."

Then we had a lovely - if hastily prepared - dinner and the folks headed back to West By-God Virginia to let the dog out. (Who lets the dog out? My parents, that's who.)

Audrey mentioned during dinner that in my efforts to manage their expectations, I had led them to believe that I lived in a scary hovel. So they probably would have loved my place even if I had not gotten it as pretty as Baseline Clean merely because they didn't have to run in to the building through a rain of bullets or dodge collapsing walls during dessert.

And now that I'm not working on a show, perhaps I can maintain something between Baseline Clean and Parent Clean for a while. Wouldn't that be nice.


* But no Chopin, lest the folks worry about my serotonin levels.

First-Timer

Michael, one of the reviewers on Show Biz Radio, had his first audition.

It’s one thing to be a Monday morning quarterback and tell the world what the team did wrong. It’s quite another thing to offer to suit up and take your hits with the team. Well, I offered to suit up, now it’s up to the coach to decide if he wants to use me or not.

The Virtual Foundation

I got an e-mail from my theater friend Erika this morning that said:

This is a very interesting website, which shows hundreds of projects from around the world which need financial support. The projects all solve local problems of environment, human health, poverty alleviation or economic development and many projects need as little funding as a couple of thousand dollars. You are able to search by country or type of project and you can also see how much funding they need and how much they have already received. It's a great place to look if you or a group you belong to are looking for a way to make a difference somewhere.

With a link to The Virtual Foundation.

So I did some mousing around on their website and found out that many of the donors give in the amounts that I do - $10 here, $18 there. Then I wandered around the web and to see what I could find about their bona fides.

The Open Society Institute (George Soros’ organization) says:

History: The Virtual Foundation was created to develop and encourage online international philanthropy, to provide a new source of support for NGOs and civil society building activities, and to develop new NGO funding resources. Founded in 1996, the Virtual Foundation has demonstrated its feasibility, especially in the areas of environmental and health grant-giving. With an international network of Consortium Members and efficient and responsive administrative grant review structure, the Virtual Foundation presents an optimal opportunity to develop Internet philanthropy. There has been considerable enthusiasm and support for the Virtual Foundation in the NGO and private foundation communities.

The Internet Program is supporting the Virtual Foundation in its efforts to attract active donors to the Virtual Foundation website through a media campaign, employing both traditional and electronic media outreach efforts. The Internet Program grant will also be used to encourage first time Virtual Foundation donors through the use of matching funds.

Population Targeted: Private foundations, individual donors, NGOs, the Internet community in general.

Philanthropy News Digest says:

An online program that supports grassroots initiatives around the world. The foundation screens and posts small-scale proposals on its Web site, where they can be read by potential donors. It was founded in 1996 by ECOLOGIA, an international nonprofit organization that has supported environmental movements and groups across Eurasia since 1989.

Philanthropy News Digest also has links to other on-lines charities, if you'd like to direct your money closer to home or just check out a charity to make sure that your money is going for programs not perks.

And the answer is

Liza asked five friends five questions. Below are the ones that she asked me. (Eep - back in May.) and tonight I am home for the first time in quite a while. I've missed my home. I had dinner with David in Bethesda before he went to see a show; opened the windows to let in the it-just-rained air; took a nice, long, hot shower, made a nice, hot cup of tea, and settled down to actually answer the questions. You know, before the end of the year, or anything. So here we go....


In a parallel universe where Silver Spring & MoCo do not exist, where do you live?

Boston or Candada. It's funny, but even though I was born in California and feel happiest outdoors in 75 degree weather soaking up the sunshine, I never dream of relocating somewhere sunny like Florida or Spain. My thoughts always turn lightly to cold climate places like New England or Scandanavia or the Maritimes. Probably because I have a far too romantic view of those places. What makes this even sillier is the fact that I am too lazy to wear a coat, let alone scarves, gloves, mufflers, caps, or anything else that would keep me alive in any of those areas after about mid-September. So if I did move to Boston, I'd be dead from hypothermia before Thanksgiving. If I were to live somewhere warm, it would be the south of France. I love New Zealand but couldn't live there because it's too far from everywhere else and I love to travel too much.

If you could direct anyone, in anything, who? what? where? why?

Hmmmmm..... I'm not sure. I've done enough directing lately that staying out of the driver's seat for a while (well, after the one acts) is the biggest temptation. I like to direct but I love to act.

If you could be cast in anything, what? where? with whom? why?

As Emma in Pinter's Betrayal. As Julie Cavendish in Edna Ferber & George S. Kaufman's The Royal Family. As Eleanor in The Lion in Winter. As practially any woman in practically any play by Craig Wright. As Karen in Dinner with Friends. As Ruth in Collected Stories. As Anna in Burn This. As Sally in Talley's Folly. As Abby in The Mercy Seat. As Abigail in 1776. (Some of those roles are never gonna happen because, oh, I'm too old and never looked like a dancer at any point in my life. Some of them are still possibles for the future.) Because they are good chewy roles about interesting women who have brilliant dialogue written for them.

With whom? Oh geez, that list could go on for a while. I know some truly amazingly good folks to work with. Talented, generous, and fun. Laura and Sally and I keep hoping to find a project to do together. I love playing in small spaces where a change of posture or expression carries to the back of the house. My only regret about community theater is the sheer number of compromises that we have to make because there's no money and we're doing the best we can as willing amateurs. So I'd love to work in a pro house just for the resources.

What are you most proud of yourself for doing?

Right now? Getting on airplanes even though I am a nervous flier. Reading Dick Francis all these years has taught me that being afraid is not a good enough reason not to do something. Be afraid and do it anyway. Do it with knees that feel like Slinkies and guts that have turned to gravy. Do it wishing that you were somewhere else. It doesn't have to be done gracefully, it just has to be done. But don't let fear stop you.

What do you wish more people knew about Celiac Disease?

That most people who have it exhibit none of the "Big Symptoms." That more people have it than you realize and that if 1 in every 133 people has it, more folks should get tested for it. That I am better informed about this disease that a lot of the medical community, many of whom believe that it's a children's disease or that it is very rare.

Undeniable

A few years ago I turned 30 and had a party to celebrate. My friend Andrew had prepared a speech. Near the top of the second paragraph of this speech is probably the truest words anyone ever spoke about me:

"...just try to avoid becoming friends with Leta if she puts her mind to it."

My kingdom for a slip

Oh Tempora, Oh Mores.... (Or, as David believes that I think the phrase goes, "Oh Tempura, Oh Mores")

Well, I can only say that I am glad that neither of my grandmothers lived to see this day.

Yesterday I was wearing a light blue skirt that Mom gave me. Pretty skirt. And in my bedroom completely opaque. But around ten o'clock I went to the ladies' room and in the full-length mirror, I saw that apparently my bedroom light is not the most discriminating light there be. Because I could very clearly see my underpinnings through the skirt.

Ack! This was clearly (oh, tooo clearly) a job for a slip.

So I told my boss that I needed to run out for an hour and I went to the local mall. I searched throughout Ladies' Lingerie at Target and found no slips. I did find a sales lady who told me that they no longer carry them and referred me to Macy's. No luck at Macy's. So I headed up the mall to Penny's, where the sales lady told me that they also no longer carry them because they weren't selling. She said that about a year ago they put all of their remaining slips on clearance and that was then end of them.

I resigned myself to looking more liberated than I intended and I avoided windows and backlighting for the rest of the day. And I checked with my pal the internet. Sears - no slips. LandsEnd - no slips. Victoria's Secret - duh - no slips.

Admittedly, I didn't know this until just now because I have always been resistant to wearing slips because if one is going to celebrate a lovely summer day by wearing something light and airy, it seems counterproductive to wear a plastic bag beneath the lovely, airy dress, rendering its airiness pretty much a concept. I also, by the way, pretty much eschew dressing gowns and, until recently, slippers, not because I did not believe in them but because I am lazy.

And if you were wondering why this would only be of interest to my grandmothers and not my mother, I refer to the time when I told her that I could see her bra through her blouse (I was a teenager and very conservative about how my parents should dress) and her reply was that at least she was wearing a bra. That's why.

Amazon.com carries slips and I found some links for places like American Intimates which also carry slips. But who knows for how long? They had very few varieties. So I'm going to check my slip inventory and order one or two because clearly the retail day of the slip has passed.

At long last, I am going to get right with my grandmothers, always models of clothing opacity. Of course, this is just another sign of my continuing slide into geezerhood. Or maybe my slipping into cronedom, but frankly, if I wanted people to see my underpinnings, I would spend more money on them and make them worth the view.

A Drink with Something In It

A Drink with Something in It -- Ogden Nash

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish that I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth —
I think that perhaps it's the Gin.

There is something about an old-fashioned
That kindles a cardiac glow;
It is soothing and soft and impassioned
As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe.
There is something about an old-fashioned
When the dusk has enveloped the sky,
And it may be the ice,
Or the pineapple slice,
But I strongly suspect it's the Rye.

There is something about a mint julep.
It is nectar imbibed in a dream,
As fresh as the bud of the tulip,
As cool as the bed of the stream.
There is something about a mint julep,
A fragrance beloved by the lucky.
And perhaps it's the tint
Of the frost and the mint,
But I think it was born in Kentucky.

There is something they put in a highball
That awakens the torpidest brain,
That kindles a spark in the eyeball,
Gliding singing through vein after vein.
There is something they put in a highball
Which you'll notice one day if you watch;
And it may be the soda,
But judged by the odor,
I rather believe it's the Scotch.

Then here's to the heartening wassail,
Wherever good fellows are found;
Be its master instead of its vassal,
And order the glasses around.
Oh, it's Beer if you're bent on expansion,
And Wine if you wish to grow thin,
But quaffers who think
Of a drink as a drink,
When they quaff, quaff of Whisky and Gin.

Understanding my calendar

Bob, an old medievalist pal, wrote this for Clam Chowder and it gets stuck in my head whenever my schedule gets too full.

The Harried Leisure Class
© Bob Esty and Clam Chowder

(With, sigh, my apologies for any transpositions, paraphasing, or other errors. I'm typing this at my desk during lunch, whaddaya want from me?)


We run about from place to place as if we're on a quest,
So occupied with having fun that we've no time to rest.
There's lots of things to do and see and we must get there fast
for we have no time to waste in the harried leisure class.

Our parents sat upon the porch and watched how life went by,
but we are much busy for there is so much to try.
We spend our weeknights getting set for our big weekend blast -
And sleep at work next day in the harried leisure class.

So much there is to do and see there simply is no way -
We're so tired out from running about I'd scarcely call it play.
We'll die before we're forty 'cause our bodies just can't last -
But we'll cram in a lot of fun in the harried leisure class!

Of dollhouses and coat racks

One year around Christmas time - I think I was 8 or so and Sara was 5 - my Dad was building something in the family room. When we asked what it was, he said that he didn't know, maybe a bookcase, maybe a dollhouse, maybe something else. And, as this was still a few months before books completely won the battle for my soul and for the available space in my home, I said "Oh, please, make a dollhouse! We don't have a dollhouse!" Dad said "We'll see," which even then I knew meant "no," and I'm pretty easy to fool, so I figured that it would be some dumb ol' bookcase (see how much my life has changed?) instead of a dollhouse and I went on my way.

Cut to Christmas morning. The tradition in my family is that one gift gets opened on Christmas Eve and the rest on Christmas Day and that gifts from Santa Claus aren't wrapped. (It was Santa who gave me all of the Little House books the following Christmas thus sealing my doom as a book person. Santa is a pusher. Or maybe an enabler.) Ånyway, there under the tree was a our beautiful dollhouse which was made not only by Dad, but by Mom and my grandparents. Dad built the three-story townhouse-style house. He put hardwood floors on all three levels, but the kitchen floor is - of course - not sanded smooth and varnished gleaming as the upper two floors are. The kitchen also has a beamed ceiling. My mother hung the wall paper on the upper two levels, and made a stained glass window for each of the upper two levels. My grandfather made the four poster bed and my grandmother sewed all the bedding for it. It had furniture and people and even art because my mother took a very small picture of me as a baby and framed it to hang on the wall. She - or Dad - also made "records" by cuting out the pictures of records that the record clubs would have on the blow-in cards in magazines.

It was a truly wonderful dollhouse and I played with it often. When I was in 7th grade, Mom took the smallest of my school pictures and framed it. By sheer chance it looks - at a very quick glance - like a famous artwork and people would look into the dollhouse, see my picture on wall, and say "Oh, you have the Mona -- no, you don't." So we called the picture the Mona Leta.

When my nieces were little, they played with the dollhouse and because Cheryl, clearly, is more closely related to me than to any other member of our family, she elbowed Angela out of the way and dominated all dollhouse-based activity. Mom eventually created an alternate dollhouse for Angela by clearing out a small bookcase and filling it with other doll furniture. If the subject of the dollhouse comes up and someone refers to "you girls playing with the dollhouse," Angela will point out that *Cheryl* played with the dollhouse, she (Angela) played with a *bookcase.*

When Mom was downsizing to get ready to move from the 3-bedroom house to the 1-bedroom apartment, she asked me what I would like and I said "The piano, the lamp that you made, and the dollhouse." "Well, I have to check with the girls." "Why? It's my dollhouse." "Yes, but they played with it, too." "Yeah, and it's my dollhouse." So it came to me and lives with me in the condo and I still love it.

Recently I was explaining to the girls about the trust provisions in Mom's will for them. (Those lucky girls will inherit two generations of debts and crap, one day from Mom and then later from me.) They will get half of Mom's estate and all of mine (the poor dears). So we were talking about how they would inherit, among other things, my condo, at which point Angela suggested that I leave *her* the condo and leave Cheryl ... the dollhouse.

*This year* for Christmas Dad made me a lovely coat rack/shelf to put in my front entryway. Its made from poplar and has brass hooks and fits nicely between the front door and the closet. Because I am (all together now) never home, it hasn't been hung, but it will be.

(Warning: this paragraph contains my hazy memory of what people said/suggested/thought/indicated and is probably chock full of misinterpretation and poor recall. Just sayin'.) David and I are still debating the best way to install it. Dad recommended drilling holes into it and putting a bolt though the holes and into the studs. David opined that a condo built in 1988 (or so) probably has eight studs in any given building, and that drilling though the front would lack aesthetic pleasingness, but John (make a point of doing shows with contractors, plumbers, electricians, etc. You'll learn a lot) said that no, there would still be a stud every 18 or 24 inches. So I suggested that we ask Andy if he could route two key-holes into the back and we can hang it thus. David agreed that this might work. And there we remain. Because Andy's theater schedule is as busy as mine.

But my lovely coat rask will get hung one day. And everytime I see it, even now as it leans up against the wall, waiting to be installed, I'll think of my Dad, who makes beautiful presents.

Maybe Angela will inherit the condo and Cheryl will get the doll house and the coat rack....

Amazingly cool

My friend Bill was pictured in Boing Boing. I am not now, nor ever have been, worthy.

And, of course, this precludes Emily from ever asking that the basement be repurposed from the Maryland Branch of the Computing Museum. I'd start lobbying now for bigger displays and more wall text.

Yay, Bill!

Tablework

"Hey, you asked. I'm willing to tell you.... In fact, I will tell you." Kess, Independence, Act II, scene i.

A long time ago, someone I know mentioned a lack among her performer friends' blogs for any kind of discussion of process. We seem to be all about costumes and blocking dilemmas, but not so much on what the characters think and feel.

One term for this process is tablework. It's when the actors and the director sit around a table (because where else are we going to put our coffee and assorted snacks?) and talk about the play.

Naturally, everyone's process is different and every show's process is different. Some directors believe in a lot of tablework, some in getting the show on its feet and letting the emotions follow the blocking. One of the things that I appreciated most about Independence is how much table work we got to do, even if we weren't sitting around a table. As we would finish working a scene Maura might say "See, Sherry seems so angry there, but she's really hurt. Why isn't she welcome in her own family?" which would start a several minute discussion between us about that question.

But Independence is very relationship-driven. And Lee Blessing (the playwright) gives us lots to work with within the four corners of the script. So I looked at the ways that they talk to each other. Kess's first scene with Jo looks like an interrogation. "Why would Mom hit you?" "Did anybody see it?" Why is Kess interrogating Jo? Why doesn't she believe her? They haven't seen each other in four years, where's the hugging and how are yous? Where's the sympathy over the neck brace?

Evelyn, Kess and Jo's mother, is both manipulative and crazy. And Jo, whether she sees it or not, is also a manipulator. "Having you here has been so great. I feel much calmer. And I know Mom's happier." In other words, do what we want and everyone stays happy and calm. Every time I heard something from Evelyn's head come out of Jo's mouth, Kess would get suspicious and shut down. Not shut down completely, but there would be a posture change, a drawing in. Some things you decide to do and keep, some thing you find yourself doing and decide to keep.

Tablework gets everyone on the same page, which means when I threw that ball, Sharon would know where to go to be under it and vice versa. Do enough tablework and you'll never have to worry about the trajectory of the ball because before it left your partner's hand you knew where it would go. Not enough and you'll find yourself in the middle of Tech Week hearing people ask "why is it that so-and-so does such-and-such?" and not in a good way.

Ten minutes of good tablework is worth an hour of rehearsal, a belief I got to put to a practical test working on Perfectly Good Airplanes. When the director and both actors are rehearsing other shows, rehearsal time is very limited. We had a total of about 5 rehearsals to get that puppy ready (I credit how well it went to the quality of my actors) and we spent the first rehearsal completely on tablework. We read the play, we talked about the play, we read it some more. We talked about it some more. We came up with a bunch of questions for Steve, the playwright. We all hoped that the cast would learn all the lines (it's about a 47-page script) but I knew that we would live and die on the relationship between the father and the daughter. So we dug into the whys and the wherefores of that relationship.

I'm now working on a redaction of David Mamet's "A Life in the Theatre" and we are similarly pressed for time, but we still spent our first two rehearsals going over the script line by line, asking questions, bouncing thoughts off of each other, and because it seems that Jeff's brain tracks in a similar manner to mine, wandering off onto tangents and non sequiturs. Josh has already remembered how non-linear my conversation is and is probably having flashbacks to Sneakers rehearsals. In that respect, he'll relate perfectly to his character, but it seems a pretty high price to pay.

Anyway.

And next rehearsal we move from one of my favorite parts of prepping a show to one of my least favorite parts - initial blocking.

Some people are just so needy

Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff.

And Josh.

What? I don't hear anything

This morning was not a good time to work in our office. No, no, we didn't have ravaging executives screaming at cowering underlings or anything like that. Nor did we have tense, silent, ominous awkwardness. No, we had something worse.

We had air hammers.

The building is being refurbished, sort of. Construction guys (or contractor guys or someone) have been putting a new "face" on the building. And today was the day that they were attaching some of the new facing. With the air hammers.

So our office sounded like the inside of a steel and concrete tree being attacked by gigantic woodpeckers.

Every so often it would stop for a few minutes and then start back up. I assume that this was while they reloaded the hammers. It turns out that it takes about as much time to reload the hammers as it takes for me to untense, which was probably humorous to watch if one could turn the sound down.

I told Ira that everytime they had to reload, I felt like I was in an episode of M*A*S*H - you know, one of those ones with lots of shelling:

"Listen!"
".....What? I don't hear anything."
"Yeah. It stopped."

One of our staffers (at least one, rather) went home with a headache around 10:30. They stopped for the day - or because some poor office worker pushed them off of their scaffold - around 11:45 or so.

But the temperature was okay at least.

Southern England?

For The Winslow Boy I had to learn a second English accent. In addition to my generic RP English accent, I was taught (by our vocal coach, John, a Scot) a passable generic cockney accent.

And, in general, once I learned how the shape the words, I just had to pay attention to the usual things like saying them in the right order, putting the stresses in the right places, etc.

So Saturday night there I was, up on stage, minding my own business when I said:

"But I saw him in this room as big as life with my own eyes before y'all came back from church."

Yep. Violet the cockney parlormaid said "y'all."

I mentioned it to Anne, our AD, a little later and she told me that I should have said "youse."