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.