Tiny Hope

...if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice....

I refuse to be tyrannized by magazine fashionistas. The weather is such that my g-string sandals are appropriate, so Miss Thang wears a summer skirt while Indian-stepping her way to the Local Palace of Voting Happiness, where she expects to be a voice in the wilderness, if her vote is even acknowleged by the Texas-based, no-paper-backup Diebold machines.

I console myself with beautiful weather and champagne lace underthings.

Bitter? Me?

Bittersweet, perhaps.

(Freewill; Rush)

Hail & Farewell

...you don't have to go home but you can't stay here....

The world bursts into color; turn, turn, everywhere brilliant glory dazzles.

I've been outside, enjoying the weather, topless, instead of inside writing about it.

Final Weekend was heartbreaking in its ordinaryness. I cross the site and hear bagpipes. A figure dances onstage with The Rogues. Black wings bounce as white socks describe intricate patterns: it is Patron Girl, who's grown all up, and her cleavage bounces a counterpoint to her wings.

I do not pick up Martin from the train station, as he's arrived by car with his friend Izzy and Izzy's helium-voiced son, Kit. Jen-less, John-less and Kynan-less, I put the newcomers into the spare bedroom, leaving the basement to Martin and Hilby. We caravan together to the site on Saturday. It's grey and heavy.

"Are you sad that it's ending?" I can't count how many people pose this question. Yes and no. Nine weekends is a long time for the kids. No, nine weekends isn't long enough for me, but since I can't choose the weather, in all honesty, I'd rather not perform outdoors past the end of October. It's been a good run, and I have no regrets.

Saturday night sees me limping around the house, unable to put weight on my ankle. Weather is moving again, and I wish it didn't bother me so, but as I've said before, I'm grateful to be able to complain.

Sunday is rainy at the outset. We decide to go on stilts rather than in white to begin our day, but as it's chilly and our makeup is stiff, by the time we troop out, the drizzle has stopped. I see a person- closer to age 50 than age 5- wearing a Tigger suit and two Klingons before I realize that it is the annual Day of Wrong. Dorothy appears in a hoop skirt. A girl raises an ordinary skirt to reveal platform, spikeheeled lace-up thigh-high boots in shiny patent leather. Several men wear wigs and bodices. Five people are dressed as Emrys Fleet, the ratcatcher, who ended his time with us last weekend. A woman is the Queen of Hearts in a period style costume. Martin goes crazy and allows himself to be photographed in the same frame as us when we accidentally cross paths.

I plan to visit Shannon in the hairbraiding booth that would be competition for Gracie, were it not for the fact that there is plenty of business for everyone. She asked last week, "When are you going to let me do your hair?" "Oh, yes," agrees Ginny. "Those hairbraiding girls, they see a woman with hair like yours and clutch each other in excitement, saying 'Look, look! Oh, what I could do with that!'" Hmmm.

I convince That Girl, who is in Whiny Mode, that it would be wonderful to not only end our day, but our entire season, in the white outfits. She is reluctant, and doesn't want to get on her stilts again. "I'll do stilts, you herd the children." She finds this a fair trade. The grounds are slick and will cover us with dark brown earthy goodness, but since the costumes need washing anyway...

At four, That Girl and F&F are done in by the damp and the chill and are ready for leaving. I have half an hour left on my contract, so I go out alone in the white cloak to bid the patrons farewell. They seem to have no idea that I'm doing this. I pass Ken's Brother, who does know. He says, "See you in fourty-two weeks."

Yeah.


(Closing Time; Semisonic, from the Feeling Strangely Fine CD)

Good Son

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

Hawk's not making it back from his Texas run, so I ask my mother to get rid of our Varechi tickets for me, which she does. I pick up the sitter anyway.

I thought to drop them all at the library, but it is mysteriously closed for a staff meeting, so they all come home, and I trip over them as I do housework. The kids think I should get out of the house for awhile, which really means "leave us alone with the sitter."

"Where should I go?"

I drive into a wall of indigo, glowing golden at the top. Geese fly overhead, honking, as I step into the parking lot of the Arundel Mills Mall, headed for Off Broadway.

"You've had a stressful day, Mama, what with Papa not making it home for your Date Night. I think you should go shoe shopping."

I'm raising that boy right, I am.

Catch Up

...who could hang a name on you/ when you change with every new day/ still I'm gonna miss you....

Wednesday and Thursday I did the murderously miserable outdoor farm animal kindergarten teacher gig, plus all the regular stuff PLUS furniture loaning and rehearsals for the Hack and Slash Christmas Special, as the children were in it.

Friday turned out to be agony. The weather moved, and I ached. Up until about ten o'clock, I was reasonably well. Then, a bit after ten, I failed to get Hawk on the phone, and started to cry. This was bad, as I was on the way to the petting farm gig. I got hold of myself, but then dissolved again when a sad song came on the radio. I got a call from Michael, who said he was on his way with his family, and they'd take my kids round so they'd have a bit more fun. Michael either doesn't know me well enough to notice that I sounded funny, or he did notice but didn't know what to say. Then Steven called and asked if I had a cold, so I told him the truth about being near tears at this horrible petting farm. He teased me dreadfully until I laughed. Michael and Company showed up then, and wandered around, sometimes close enough to hear that I was having problems with the sound equipment. Hawk called just past one, when I had finished, and I was in tears again, but by now I'd figured out what was going on.

It was the anniversary of my fall.

Cyclically speaking, the Friday before MRF's second to last weekend was when it happened. Right around ten o'clock. By eleven, I was at the hospital, awaiting x-rays of my elbow, wrist and ankle. I joked with the attendant at the front desk as she fastened on my bracelet: "Cool! Free drinks all night!" She appeared startled at my humor. Four-thirty saw me riding back to the PA Fest site, to retrieve my car and props, and wait for my mother and sister to rescue me. I couldn't drive home. I had hoped I might, and so had refused morphine, which turned out okay after all, as I suspect morphine would have cost much more than the six-dollar-apiece Tylenol with Codeine that I did take. The worst bit of the ordeal was waiting, alone, in the car, clumsily answering the dying cell phone left-handed, and needing to pee very badly. There was nowhere to go, though I considered a bit of grass beside a bush, but didn't dare, as I was wearing a unitard and wasn't sure I could a.)get out of it; b.) manage to squat on one leg; c.) get out of a squat; or d.) get it all back together again and return to the car without passing out.

So I waited.

The first thing we did (after gentle hugging and kissing) was get me to a gas station, where Cory practically carried me to the bathroom, saying, "She's not heavy, she's my sister."

Flash forward to now.

I sniveled to Coco around two thirty and told her what was going on. She was sympathetic, which was kind, because I felt pretty stupid, having a delayed reaction to an event a year old. Especially since I had shed no tears on THAT day, and had congratulated myself that the tenth had come and gone with nary a ripple.

However, by four I was much better, and dropped the kids off to rehearse yet again, and took That Girl with me to grocery shop.

The Christmas Special went off beautifully, and I was not the only one of the opinion that my children were adorable. Hawk even made it back for the show.

For the first time in three years, I have a Gigi-less weekend. Saturday, Fuzzy sleeps in, so we let her stay home with Papa. It is just Fluffy and me once again. We do not do the white parade, though with Mike and Wyatt, the stilt walkabout still has lots of impact. Mark's feeling poorly, so Wyatt scrams with no mimesnack, but Mike joins us. We're enjoying hot cider, steak sandwich, onion rings, and brownie sundae (from the food area known on the inside as 'Monster') when a fabulous storm blows up. We race back to camp. I, grinning, try to eat the wind. The Participants' Party is not well attended. I help Nancy set up cheese and crackers and other snacks, and pull beer for a few brave souls.

Sunday, I go to zone. This is the first time I have both children without Ginny's help. It's a bit trying, but we manage. We even do the white parade; another first: I wear stilts and the gorgeous white cloak.

Martin's in a bit of a rush, as his lady has been ill, so we scramble to pack up camp and get out. I change into street clothes, removing hat but not makeup. As I slide glasses onto my nose, I tell the folk hanging about- Hilby, Wyatt, Mark, Martin, Fluffy, Fuzzy, Mike and Chris- to please NOT tell me precisely how stupid I look. Snickering ensues.

Martin makes his train, and by six, we are home, and in quick order washed and comforted by supper and snuggles. All is well in our world.

Heavy weather gives us a weird schedule this week. One day I sleep in past ten, and past nine on two others. I cook brunch twice. The children and I clean house in fits and starts. I spend lots of time hobbling and aching. I switch to using my left arm, as the right is bothering me. The sunlamp fails to cheer me, but does keep me from turning suicidal.

Final Weekend looms large. Another season comes to an end.

(Ruby Tuesday; The Rolling Stones)

Toolishly Impaired

...if I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening....

I am fairly certain that I do not own a complete set of screwdrivers. I have, however, no fewer than four razors in my shower, and only one of them is for the man. The rest are, er, specialized.

I have pumice in three grades, but no notion of whether I own sandpaper in any grade at all.

When I'm down, I buy soap, cosmetics, or hair products. When I'm up, I use them. I have no interest whatever in power tools.

It becomes increasingly evident that my plan to have home improvement as a relaxing hobby is an abject failure.

(If I Had A Hammer; Pete Seeger)

No, really.

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....


I'm back, watching the Olympics. Had a great time in Minnesota. I'll have a better post soon, but I just wanted to say hello and thanks for checking in.

Outdoors Again

...a simple kinda life never did me no harm/ A raisin’ me a family and workin’ on a farm....

Strong and bright, the sun coaxes us to take down the top. Our new pixie, Trixie, flutters energetically from the rear view mirror.

For the rest of this month, I have a weekday gig at a petting farm, which sounds very senusal, though not in an adult way. This gig, courtesy of the ever persuasive Michael Rosman, is proving an interesting experience. Jason, who hosts an animal show that finishes with a piglet race, takes care of the sound equipment and introduces me to a wireless mike. He engages me in conversation with an intent gaze and a smudgy, horse-wrestling attractiveness. Gino, who looks Native American, speaks to me in broken English that sounds Mexican, reminding me just how indistinct that particular line really is.

A child unabashedly strokes my hair, hanging loose beneath a Stetson, and another embraces me in order to tangle tiny fingers in its length. Have I perhaps become an exhibit in the petting farm? It's nice to be approachable, though I should be, perhaps, having made a 20 year career of being approachable.

Professionally approachable, that's me.

(John Denver; Thank God I'm A Country Boy)