Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Get Well Soon

So...I have two get well cards to send. One was sitting out on my desk. A lovely glittery flowery but yet totally tasteful beautiful thing. I am sending it to my dear friend's aunt who is having surgery. Fine.

So Doc Hubby comes home after work yesterday and I hear Bean whisper to her Daddy and he says "That's such a good idea." And she says "But let's keep it a secret." And he says "Ok." Christmas is coming, I think. How cute.

Cut to bath time, Bean is being a slowpoke about getting into the tub. She is naked. Running around. I look on my desk and the card is gone. "Where's my card?" I say. Bean mutters something. The kid likes sparkly things. She is such a girl.  "I need that card, where is it?" I demand. And somehow thorough the kerfuffle I get the sense that Bean has hidden it under the chair in her room.  I am late in sending out this card. I need the card. I look under the chair, and it isn't there. She isn't getting in the tub.  I'm getting impatient.  "Who are you sending it to?" Bean asks. "Bean, I need that card, it's a get well card, please get it for me." "But who are you sending it to?!" And I snap. "BEAN! GET ME THAT CARD NOW!"

And she bursts into tears. Takes her little naked self into the bedroom and reaches under her big girl bed and pulls out the card. "But I wanted to give it to you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay!" She wails.

I look at Doc Hubby. Really? Really you couldn't have helped me out of this one?

"I need it to send to Ben's Aunt Sandy," I say.

"But I wanted to save it for you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay."

It is a really pretty card. Day 1365 of my reign as Worst Mother In the World.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Opening Night

If you're around New Haven come and see our show. It's pretty beautiful.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Keeping Up With the Kids These Days

So lately my friend Rebecca is all on about how when people in their teens and twenties see us now, they think "that lady."  Like, "look at that lady trying to get her umbrella turned right side out" or "look at that lady trying to push a stroller and hold an umbrella at the same time" or "look at that lady bleeding from the eye after she poked herself with an umbrella."  That lady.  "Is that lady really trying to make money rapping on the F train?"

I don't feel like "that lady." 

But since the young guy in our play who graduated from my college in 2006, asked if there are any teachers there now who were also teaching when I was there, as if my college career was about a million years ago...and then I did the math and drew some parallels and realized that to him, I'm like some lady who graduated in 1976 and god knows those people are ancient. Since then I've made a more concerted effort to keep up with the kids these days.

So while we spend hours in the Green Room waiting to practice our play, we have been catching up on the youtube videos that the kids are watching.  All of them are, like, so 2010, but to us ladies and gents they are new.  And if you want to be hip, and not reveal your "lady" stripes, watch these.  Plus they are funny.

Can't Hug Every Cat

Okay so I totally knew this girl was an actress the first time I saw the guys dressing room where all the guys were watching it.  The guys all insist that this is real. The song is based on an eharmony video and it's so totally fake.  But still funny. 

Antoine Dodson Bed Intruder Song

So all the students working our show are all, yeah that was so funny two years ago. Well, it's new to most of us in the cast. My friend T.R. has purchased it on iTunes. Apparently all the money that people spend on the iTunes version of the song goes to the Dodson family. Hopefully they don't live somewhere that you need to hide your kids, wife, and husbands now.

and finally, The Gay Weatherman

Speaks for itself, don't you think.

So all you ladies out there, you're welcome.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

An Old Pair of Slippers

So I went away to work again.  Beautiful New Haven, CT.

Actually, it is pretty beautiful.  The university is gorgeous.  During the beautiful days last week I walked through the campus and felt homesick for my little college on the hill.  For the familiarity it used to offer.  Every year in the fall I feel like I should be going back.  I wonder how long that will last?

Now it's raining.  The remnants of some other hurricane.  This one with a non-gender-specific name I think.  I'm in my very spacious and light filled apartment watching "Ghost Hunters" (total coincidence, I swear.  I actually don't think I've watched Ghost Hunters in weeks).  It's raining and I'm homesick for my actual home.  Bean is doing a puddle walk with our wonderful babysitter.   I'm about to go and get some new slippers for the third act.

Doing the play again after three months feels a bit like putting on a pair of well-worn slippers.  Or better, like putting on a favorite pair of jeans after the summer.  Just having something covering your legs feels kind of weird.  And kind of comforting.  And the shirt you wore with it last Spring isn't quite right.  And you need to rethink that belt.  But it's familiar.  Welcome.  Some rehearsals it feels like we did our last performance in Berkeley 45 minutes ago, and other days it feels like we never did it at all.  The play remains so inscrutable in so many ways.  Moments that I finally just took a deep breath and swam through, trusting they'd make some kind of sense...those moments can be reexamined.  Should be reexamined.  Are excruciating to reexamine.

And so I gotta go try on those slippers.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Because I Even Brought Up Ghosts

I'm obsessed with "Ghost Hunters" but that's another post.  Except I think I need to call Jason and Grant.  The day after The Pink Hairband Incident I entered the Bean's bathroom.

And there.

In the bottom of the toilet.

I saw the ghost of her pink hairband.

Or the pink hairband itself.

It just won't die-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!

Either way I reflushed that possessed hairband again faster than you can say ectoplasmic manifestation.  No way I'm fishing that nasty thing out and running it through the delicate cycle.

And the Pink Hairband hasn't been seen since.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

It's Never About the Hairband

So, Bean and I are spending a lot of time together these days. A lot.  I planned this summer of much time together mostly to assuage my guilt for having been out of town for three months.  Pretty sure Bean has completely forgotten I was gone.  I'm left trying to be a one-woman-summer-camp for three months.

Today we had ballet in the morning and a playdate in the afternoon (still hate that term with the white hot heat of a thousand playground slides--can't we come up with something better? Play appointment? Play coffee?).  My apologies again, NYC parks service. The kids were just planting those blueberries. I realize you will no doubt need to close that section of lawn and reseed.  I will provide the chicken wire.

So by the time we got home, Bean was good and muddy.  Sent her directly in to the bathroom for a shower. She had to go potty first.  Can't remember if she flushed or I did (come on, it was me, of course) but just as I flushed, I also reached down to remove her pink squishy ponytail holder.  And like something out of a movie, it flew out of my hand like a rubber band shot by a ten year old boy, and landed square in the toilet just as the final swirl was circling around the bowl. And gurgle slurp glug glug glug.  It was gone.

I started to laugh.  Insane timing. No possible chance to fish that thing out.

Bean promptly lost it.  Inconsolable, snotty, naked sobbing for about forty minutes.

Did I mention the hair band came from a pack of identical hair bands? She has five more EXACTLY like the one that went down the crapper, in the plastic befeathered carrying bag.  Along with about 40 others in various other pleasing colors.

"But this was my most SPECIAL hairband!!!" naked sob sob snot wipe sob "Can't you call someone to get it back?"

"Well, who could I call, honey.  It went down into the sewer with all the poopy.  You wouldn't want it back now anyway. And we have lots more."

"But what will it do down there?  It will be LONELY!"

sob sob snot.  still naked.

lame comforting from me while I lay on her boppy and try not to fall asleep.

Bean looks up at me with big bluey hazely teary eyes.

"Can't we call the firemen?"

Of course, this isn't about hairbands right? It's never about the hairband. Just like Doc Hubby and I are never really fighting about the dishes.  It's about loss and things going away and never coming back and her dawning realization that life itself implies death and the horrible moment a few days ago when she looked at me and said "Mama I don't want to die." My grandfather and possibly ghosts and you know.

So I said to her, "Are you feeling sad about things getting lost?  Other things that are gone forever?"

And she wiped her snot on her towel and sobbed angrily, "Nooooo! I am just very sad about my very special hairband!"

Make note to discuss with non-slacker mothers who actually read about parenting during the Bean's next playsummit.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The Thrid and Final Installment of my Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby to Be the Onset Doctor at the Daily Show

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Cameron Diaz
Daily Show Full EpisodesPolitical Humor & Satire BlogThe Daily Show on Facebook

Really, Daily Show?  Really really?

Cameron Diaz. Nice girl and all, but really?

Rubbing alcohol.  Tweezers and Craft Scissors?????
Really really?

In case you missed it, Cameron Diaz, beloved star of There's Something About Mary just kind of removed stitches from the inner aspect of Jon Stewarts WRIST!  Jon Stewart, host of "The Daily Show".  I'd venture to guess Comedy Central's most valuable asset.  But I don't know that assertion would stand up to PolitiFact.

Please tell me you had a doctor on set when Cameron Diaz started cutting tiny threads on the underside of Jon Stewart's wrist with a pair of blunt scissors.   Maybe just watching on the monitor in the Green Room?

Doc Hubby is a former physician for the New York Yankees.  You wanna tell me, Comedy Central, that Jon Stewart is any less valuable to you than Derek Jeter is to the Yankees??  You wanna tell me that the Yankees would let Cameron Diaz near Derek Jeter with craft scissors and a tweezerman?

OK maybe don't mention that whole Yankees thing to Jon Stewart himself.  Doc Hubby only did that for one season anyway. On second thought, don't hold that against him. He got the hell out of that den of snakes before they started handing out World Series Rings.

Please, Comedy Central.  Not for me.  Not for Doc Hubby.  But for the Alumni Association of William and Mary.  For fans of "Death to Smoochy." For Liberia. Call Doc Hubby and get his ass on your set.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Part 2 of My Viral Attempt to Get Doc Hubby to Be the On Set Doctor at the Daily Show

So...apparently Jon Stewart went to Mt. Sinai to have his wrist stitched up.  All well and good.  It's a fine hospital, Mr. Stewart.

But perhaps you haven't heard that "AMAZING" things are happening at New York Presbyterian hospital, where Doc Hubby is employed and has been for nearly 20 years?  So yeah, Mt. Sinai is all well and good for stitching up that wrist wound (and sorry to hear about the kid who needed a new face but yeah, kids are resilient), but you're gonna want the guy from the "AMAZING" place right there for the next elderly member of a former presidential administration who has a heart attack or hemorrhoid on set...or god forbid the moment you go into anaplyactic shock after inhaling whatever it is that makes Donald Trump's hair defy all the laws of physics.  First Aid, Mr. Stewart.  First response.

Doc Hubby remains available.

Call me.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

My Viral Campaign to Get Doc Hubby Appointed On-Set Doc at The Daily Show

Here's what you people at Comedy Central should know.

Doc Hubby is a rock star. In medical school he was a Gross Anatomy savant. He is regularly made privy to butt lesions by distant cousins and he does not faint. And he wins conferences all the time. Didn't know you could win an academic medical conference? You totally can.

During the taping of the show yesterday, Jon Stewart received a near mortal wound to the wrist during a Weiner sketch involving a blender, a margarita glass and a podium. Based on the fact that a producer handed Stewart a towel, like, ten minutes after he cut himself (and only after Stewart showed America the blood that was streaming down his arm and pooling in his cuff), I'd venture a guess you have no on-set doctor. Let's be frank. Comedy is dangerous. Jon Stewart is comedy. I'm guessing that Walker Texas Ranger had an on-site physician. You need one too.

Not to mention insurance.

And the fact that Doc Hubby will laugh at Jon Stewart's jokes but still maintain a steady hand as he bandages his wounds.

Call me, Comedy Central.  I think we can work something out.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Parenting Heroics

Doc Hubby is a hero (a hero minus a giant fish but still a hero).  Doc Hubby agreed to take on 11 weeks of solo full-time childcare so I could come to one of the most beautiful spots on earth and act in one of the most beautiful plays ever written with one of the loveliest bunches of people ever.  So there.  Thank you Doc Hubby.  My friends and family, rightfully so, are pretty amazed by him.  Impressed by his generosity and patience.  He deserves a medal.

Well, 9 weeks.  They were here in the Bay Area for two weeks. Right at first preview and opening.

Well, 6 weeks.  My mother did three weeks of childcare.

Well, we had a full-time babysitter for those 6 weeks.  So Doc Hubby did weekends and early morning and bedtime.  And of course, bore the primary responsibility for meals, discipline, and decision-making.  He limited his workday to 9 - 5...for 35 days.

You know, come to think of it, remember last fall when I was doing the play in town?  Yeah that was a 16 week commitment.  We had babysitting while I was in rehearsal, but once the play was up and running (the final 3 months or so) I was home all day taking care of the Bean.  And then I'd make dinner, and then Doc Hubby would get home and I would go and do the show.  The show was nearly 3 hours long...a five hour commitment when all is said and done (warm up and wigs and getting laced into corsets take some time--not to mention getting out of them).  Times 8 shows a week...that's 40 hours.  I was working full time. And taking care of the Bean all day.  Oh and remember the fall before when I did that other play?  Pretty much the same thing.  Only Bean wasn't in school so we really had every minute of every day together.

Doc Hubby definitely deserves a medal. He's been heroic.

I haven't had too much time to write lately.  I'm working 40 hours a week.  But here's my question.

Why is it that when Daddy does it, it's heroic and when Mama does it, it's just parenting?

Monday, May 16, 2011

My Rock Star Godson

Today, May 16th, 2011, I predict that my godson will eventually be class president.

Let it be so.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Time Will Pass

"The Three Sisters" is a play about time. Time passing. Time lagging. Time spent waiting for real life to begin. It's about memory and longing. About trying to recapture something beautiful from the past. About hoping hard for the future.

I have thought a lot about how I'll prepare before the play. This doesn't seem like one to just eat a burger, show up, and do. Although given that it's Berkeley the odds are much greater that I'll end up eating a gluten-free veggie patty and drinking kale juice and then getting laced into my corset. This play is full of secrets and private dreams and somehow I need to get inside those before we start each night. I think. Otherwise the first act (in which I speak the very first words) will be more about warming up than actually flying.

So I have created an Olga playlist and loaded it onto my ipod. I went to the new "Jane Eyre" movie and lost myself in the moors. I remember reading that book in the back of my Dad's 1979 camper van while we drove across the country in the early 80s. I have been thinking a lot about my own childhood, and searching for memories--particularly of my grandparents and time I spent in their house as a girl. And then I was moved to go on YouTube and watch videos. Of my husband's college acapella group. Yup. The Zumbyes appear to be part of my prep to play Olga in "The Three Sisters."

There's a particular feeling I'm searching for. A raw, yearning, sense of possibility. A melancholy ache. The longing I remember feeling when I was on the verge of the rest of my life. The sweet melancholy is right there when I look at these videos from my senior year of college. I almost think I can hear my roommate laughing in the audience. Six weeks after Doc Hubby and I had started dating. In May. When the forsythia was blooming and he brought me boughs in a watering can early in the morning. Our play begins in May. The restlessness of Spring. It's already Spring here in San Francisco. The flowers are unfamiliar. No forsythia. No lilac. Large almost too bright blossoms under palm trees. It's strange. For part of the day today I was pretty convinced San Francisco is the best city ever. I certainly can't imagine a city with more spectacular views.

And so I listen to Billy Joel and Mary Chapin Carpenter and Joni Mitchell and John Denver and James Taylor and Nanci Griffiths. And I watch my 20 year old husband wearing a silly tie bouncing around a stage and singing songs he arranged. And my grandmother is in assisted living and my daughter dances ballet around her room.

Time will pass.

And Doc Hubby is third from the left at the beginning of the song and in the back row on the left for most of the rest.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Meet My Fake Husband

Friends, meet my fake husband, Doc B. Hubby:

Ok because I'm a crazy person and alone here in San Francisco and bored, I googled my fake husband the marine biologist. And I have to say, this picture from his professional web page (which I have absolutely no permission to reprint but since I am not revealing his identity or linking to him in any way shape or form will hopefully not offend him on the off chance one of his marine biologist friends is googling cool pics of sea lion families and comes across my page and emails him to say "dude, that righteous picture of you holding the shark is on some girl's blog") is awesome.

Now as it turns out, my fake husband and real husband have quite a few things in common. My real husband also has khaki shorts. And he is also a Red Sox fan. He too, likes to fish. Though more often than not we eat the fish he catches, and my guess is that Doc B. Hubby studied, but did not eat this fish. Then again who knows. I also have asserted it was a shark and really, I have no idea what kind of fish it is, other than a darned big one.

Here is the pic from my actual husband's professional web page.

I'm gonna be honest here. Not as awesome.

However in Doc D. Hubby's defense I can offer this photo:

Or this one (I have no idea who that woman is with him):

Or even this one:

But really, I think the only thing I can do is to offer a picture of my own to my fake husband. Doc B. Hubby, you can post this picture on your website at any time, without asking. It's yours.
Your Fake Wife

My Postcard to the Bean

Hello Sweet Bean,
I wanted to tell you a little more about the play I'm in. It's called "The Three Sisters." I play the oldest sister, Olga. She is a school teacher and is good and kind. But she gets sad because she has headaches and she isn't a Mama. The middle sister is called Masha. She wears black clothes all the time and is moody and likes to read. The youngest sister is Irina. She is very beautiful and very clever and has lots of dreams in her heart. And there is a brother in the family called Andrei. He is an artist and plays the violin and carves wood but he is scared of lots of things. That's my pretend family. I love you oodles, Mama

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Three of a Kind

I miss my little family.

That was all I was going to write but want to hear a funny story? So I was skyping with the Bean and Doc Hubby. And the Bean was a little sad so I wanted to send her the photos I took today of the sea lions at Pier 39. So I emailed this pic really quickly to Doc Hubby's work address and I thought I'd also send it to his gmail address just in case that one was working faster. So I sent the photos to "," but as it turned out, they came instantaneously to the work address and we all enjoyed them. Technology, as aforementioned, is a brilliant thing.

A few hours later I get this email that says:
"Hi Wendy, Wrong Doc Hubby. Cool pictures, though.

So what's hilarious about this is several things. First of all, my Doc Hubby signs his name "-Doc" just like that with no "from" or "love" or "best" or "fondly." Just a kind of a pretentious dash in front of his name. So at first I was totally confused because I thought this email was actually from my husband and I didn't know what he meant by wrong "Doc Hubby."

Second thing that's funny, this Doc Hubby is "Doc B. Hubby" and my husband is "Doc D. Hubby." Doc B. Hubby's email is "Doc.Hubby@gmail" and my Doc D. Hubby is "Hubby.Doc@gmail". Clearly Doc B. Hubby got the name first and my guy had to improvise And that's just amusing to me. Also B and D rhyme and that's weird.

And finally, and perhaps my very favorite part of this whole mix up, is that Doc B. Hubby took the time to write back to me and tell me I had the wrong guy, and also add "Cool pictures, though." Because, as it turns out, Doc B. Hubby is employed by the University of Maine School of Marine Sciences. How awesome is it that his fake wife actually sent him pictures of Sea Lions! It's like I'm psychic.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

The Flame Fold

One of my favorite things about rehearsing a new play is discovering what skills your character has that you don't have. When I played a magician's assistant, we had a magic consultant who came in and taught us all various sleight of hand moves. I know a great trick from that show involving a glass, a napkin and a quarter. Take me out to dinner sometime. I'll amaze you. I've learned how to carry a shotgun, how to throw a punch, how to smoke a cigar (well I kind of faked that--it was friggin' nasty), how to jump rope in 19th century clothing, how to remove 19th century clothing from someone and put it back on them very very quickly, and every single move of a seven minute sequence from a classic silent film starring Lillian Gish called "The Wind."

For this show? Napkin folding. I decided my character is good at folding cloth napkins into pretty shapes. So over the course of the last two days I have learned how to make a bird (2 different ways), a fleur de lis, a lily and a flame. The birds were rejected but I am hoping our director green lights the flame, which I think looks like a flower.

Here's the video that taught me how to do it.
How to Make a Flame Fold in a Napkin |

And here's my work of napkin art.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Straight to the Ten

This is the first time I have worked out of town since 2007. The first time I have worked far away from home since...2006 I think. The farthest away from home I have ever worked, as a matter of fact. And the first time I have worked near a Trader Joe's. Dark Chocolate Salted Almonds...mmmmmm.....

The world has changed significantly since 2006. Doc Hubby has a fancy-schmancy new iPhone and with it he can send me pictures every two seconds so I can watch the Bean do cute things almost non-stop. And we can skype...using this same fancy-schmancy phone. I suppose if I had a fancy-schmancy phone we could skype anywhere any time without being tied to a computer at all.

Maybe it's just a whole lot of bells and whistles. Maybe. But I played Texas Hold 'Em with my whole family back in the Burg tonight. They set me up on the table like I was Max Headroom, and dealt me in...and I won money! Sure I couldn't eat the snacks, but I really did feel like I was there. In fact, I believe I won more hands than I ordinarily do. My brother started blatting about how it was actually an advantage to me because I wasn't there to face the ridicule in person when I lost a hand. The percentage of hands I won head-to-head against him was much higher than usual. Heh. He didn't like that. Of course I have been practicing playing poker a lot on my un-fancy-schmancy phone.

It's easy to take for granted, but we have entered the age of the Jetsons. Without the big skirts. And our monitors fit in our backpacks. I know this is nothing new, but it's kind of incredible the difference that it makes in my life. I played poker. With my family. Three thousand miles away. Via my husband's phone. They had a family poker night. And I wasn't left out.

I am grateful for this technology. I can see my Bean's face and hear her voice. At the same time. It definitely makes this whole long distance thing easier. So, Steve Jobs, thank you. I may be your bitch. But I am grateful.

p.s. All the pictures on this post were taken with my very un-schmancy phone. It's pretty here.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

What is Fun About All of This

So here is what is fun about all of this so far:
  • Most of the cast went out for dinner last night. And I had almost forgotten the kind of wonderful instant family you become when you work out of town. People you have known for two or three days are suddenly your pretend family, and sort of by default, your real family. You look out for each other. You share food. The men can be such gentlemen. That's nice.
  • Skype! Holy cow how technology has changed since I did this last. You can just turn on Skype, make dinner, hang out, watch TV, and kind of feel like you're in the same room. Without the pressure the phone gives you of keeping having to talk. Doc Hubby actually walked me around the apartment. It was a balm to my soul.
  • Your only responsibilities when you work out of town are: eating, working out, studying the play, and rehearsing. When you are staying in a postage stamp of an apartment there's not much else to do.
  • You get to watch whatever you want on TV.
  • You get to eat whatever you want. I had two salads yesterday. I had two cups of coffee today. I am convinced I will get healthy while I'm here.
  • My mange is practically gone. I think it must be the air. Divine.
  • Exploring.
What isn't fun? Calling your wee one and hearing her say "I miss you Mama" and then get weepy. Mine did this just this morning. And then apparently went and looked forlornly out of the window.

I'm not sure what's worse, having her miss me horridly and start to cry, or knowing that in a week or two, she will be used to me being gone.

Monday, March 7, 2011

We Are Gypsies

Most actors work away from home. We get the odd job where we live, but far more often we are called upon to leave our homes, and our loved ones, and our furry friends, and travel somewhere else to do a show. More often than not we are unemployed at home and employed on the road.

When you are single...this is awesome. So I have been told. When you are married it stings like a ground wasp, but it's kind of fun exploring a new area when your spouse comes to visit. Trying new restaurants. Driving around on the day off. I actually quite liked the feeling of showing my new surroundings to Doc Hubby. My little apartment and my newfound coffee shops and grocery stores. When I work out of town, everything here is mine. My accomplishments. My friends. My bravery to start fresh on my own and dare to do this thing. And everyone knows what a little absence can do to the heart....

But when you are a out of town is...I don't know yet. For the first time since the Bean was born I have taken a job out of town. And not just a quick hop on a plane or train or even the car. Totally across the country. To a different time zone. The farthest I have ever traveled from home to work. For the longest I have ever been gone (well, it's tied with another job). 11 weeks away from home. And away from my Bean. AM I INSANE???!!!!???!!! I already miss her so much I could eat my arm.

She and Doc Hubby will come to visit for two weeks in the middle. FIVE weeks from now.

I AM TOTALLY INSANE! Commence gnawing.

I already miss the squiggly weight of her on my lap. My mother said that after dinner tonight Bean had a cupcake. As per usual, Bean licked all the icing off her cupcake. Then she set the cake down. But then, Mom said, she stared at the cupcake, completely bereft, as if to say "where did all my icing go?" And then her eyes welled up and she said "I want my Mama."

A little girl, not much bigger than Bean, projectile puked on the plane today. (Note to Doc Hubby, pack wipes and an extra change of clothes in the carry on). I was far enough away to only see the flurry of cleaning from a distance and catch a delayed whiff. We took Bean on her first plane ride about two weeks ago. I am delighted to say she did not puke. Hoping desperately she has inherited Doc Hubby's hearty New England constitution in that regard. I watched that clean up with a teeny bit of schadenfreude I will confess.

So far, not having to clean up puke on a plane is the only good part of leaving a child behind to go and do a play. So far, when you are a parent, work away from home is horrible. I will check back in when I have found a few good coffee shops.

I miss you Bean.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Backstage View

There is something melancholy about closing a show. Knowing that this particular group of people will never stand together, wearing those exact clothes, and telling that one story. Ever again. Even though for many weeks after, we all still could. The play still resides inside of us, even though it's been dismantled physically. If we met in a park we could still do the play. Ish.

There are dressing rooms and wings of theaters that I don't remember any more. Time is passing and with it my memory, my memory that I am oh so very proud of and oh so confident of its exactitude, fades. So I took my little camera and grabbed a few shots of what I saw, every day and every night for over 80 performances of "A Free Man of Color." And what I won't see any more.

This was my life for four months. We are gypsies. We are storytellers. Who sometimes get to wear really nice shoes.