Join Me in Snarkville

While I try to think that I’m pretty normal most of the time, I think when I’m alone and quiet that I may be forced to admit, I’m a wee bit crazy.  One writer I adore writes of her Mental Health number and rates any given moment on a scale of insanity.  I like this measure because it admits up front that we are merely measuring the level of crazy, not determining *IF* there’s crazy.  Perhaps it is a Southern thing — long ago those of us Southerners came to terms with our crazy (called it eccentric, but still) — I wonder when the Yankees will catch up?

So, while I freely admit that I’m crazy, I think I’d be remiss if I don’t explain why I have a perfectly valid reason to be crazy.  It isn’t like I paved the road to the nuthouse all by myself — I was pushed, pulled, and dragged down to Insanity Land with help — MUCH help.

1. Our dog.  He is the dumbest ball of fluffy fur that exists.  Yes, he is a Cocker Spaniel, which by defination makes him swim in the swallow end of the IQ pool.  In fact, if there is a breed dumber than cockers, then our dog would make that breed look like MENSA dogs.  Case in point, we have no fence (see fences are expensive, our dog is dumb, we like our neighbors, fences are expensive), so when I let the dog out, we have a long lead for him — so he can be outside without me (see there may be snow here at some point and the neighbors don’t need to see me in my PJs every morning) and have ‘private time.’  He HATES this lead — but he doesn’t dwaddle outside because of it — so I declare a win-win.  This morning I let him out, I come back inside make my coffee, feed Duke, sit down and begin to wonder if I’m ever going to see dog face at the door to come back in.  I go outside and there is NO dog to be seen.  The lead is not long enough for him to wander too far and I can’t figure out where he’d get off too.  So, I pull on the lead from the stake in the ground and find that it is leading UNDER the deck (a rocky area full of weeds that we need to get to at some point).  I find the dog laying under the deck.  I call him, he looks pitiful (he always looks pitiful).  I pull on the lead a little.  He does NOT move.  I go in get shoes, walk to the edge of the deck closest to him and call him over.  He slowly comes and I unhook him and he BOLTS for the back door.  I pull the lead back to where it belongs and realize that he’d either gotten lost under the deck and couldn’t figure out how to get out because the lead isn’t long enough for him to wrap it all through the deck OR he was afraid of a weed and wouldn’t go back the way he came.  I think the latter.  I’ve got a dollar on he’ll go under the deck the next time I let him out.
2. Labor Day weekend saw us (I mean Prince) laboring on our deck outside.  He cleaned it.  He stained it.  Then we waited for it to dry.  And waited and waited and waited.  While waiting, I looked out and saw what looked like paw prints.  Oh great, an animal got up on our deck while it was wet — lovely.  I go off on a rant about how we live in a zoo and never can have anything nice and how this deck will never dry and this is why don’t do home improvement, when Prince says, “Um, Honey, those aren’t paw prints.  They are knots from the wood.”  Apparently the deck was so dirty and yucky looking that I never noticed how many knots were in the boards.  Opps.  That rant was fun while it lasted.
3. Patio Chair Cushions.  We threw out the old, icky, GROSS cushions before we moved.  I have lovely chairs without cushions, but my deck is pretty and I want to finish with new cushions so we might be able to eat outside ONCE before the snow arrives (which given the talk around here, might be next week).  However, I am loathe to spend an arm and a leg on cushions (why I’ve been cushionless for nearly a year) and want them to be on sale.  I found sale cushions I like, but then I found cushions for HALF the price that might not be bad — but there 12 colors to pick from AND I can’t decide.  URGH.  Oh and Prince and I totally differ on which ones to pick — so he’s no help.
4. It took us longer to decide on which snow blower to buy than it did to pick out the house we live in.  I wish I was kidding.  I’ve never owned a snow blower before — heck, I’ve never lived anywhere that needed a blower for snow.  I researched.  I asked tons of stupid questions.  Prince reminded me that HE had actually lived in snow and used a snow blower in the past.  I fretted.  I learned a lot.  We happened to be somewhere where the snow blowers were just being put out and we looked.  Prince marveled at something and I said offhandedly, “Oh, well, there’s this one I saw at Sears that adjusts the chute with a joystick.”  (If that sentence makes no sense to you, then you have not spent the past month worried about snow that might not be here until January.)  Prince just stared at me and wondered aloud who I was and what happened to his wife.  So we go to Sears.  We look.  We talk.  I show off all my new knowledge of snow blowers (do you realize it is possible to know so much about them without ever having seen one move? Oh, yes, it is possible.)  I had basically picked one out and Prince talked me into a SMALLER, LESS powerful machine.  Now, I’m forced to wonder who he is and what happened to my “Tim, the Tool Man, Taylor” husband.
5. Home Depot is offering to install carpet for a whole house for pocket lint (or something so little).  I want desperately to re-carpet my whole house.  I think about it constantly, even though I totally agreed to wait until spring (hello snow covered paws and new carpet — and tax refund).  So, now I’m forced to pet carpet samples where ever I go.  And I have issues — I don’t know WHAT I want in carpet.  I know what I don’t want — but seriously, that isn’t helping me pick.  And I’m not looking forward to the prospect of having to move my stuff to get the carpet in here.  However, I found the plaid carpet I NEED in my basement — I *NEED* it.  Maybe I should just carpet the basement for now — and Duke’s room — and our room — and the hallway — and Prince’s office — and the  — and –  and –

Yes, I know I’m nuts — but I seem to be getting it from everyone around me.  So, when you see my sitting in the corner twitching and muttering to myself — you will know….it is not *MY* fault.

Alternative title: How to waste an hour and half trying to pay a bill

Alternative title the second: Really, I have money, you want money, why is this so hard?

So, you remember how I moved?  Remember how when you move you have things to change, like phone numbers, addresses, and various bills?  You all know how when you say “Moving is a pain in the butt” — you aren’t really talking about the packing and unpacking part, because the real pain is all the dang paperwork.

First, there was the post office.  I filled out the paperwork for my change of address.  I filled out the paperwork to hold my mail for the transit time.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  The post office LOST all of my mail from the time I left the Snark State until after I arrived in Mid-Snark.  Oh, yes, that was fun.  Now my postman regularly gives my mail to my neighbors — Perhaps he is doing his duty to have us all meet and exchange letters.

Second, there was turning off everything in Snark State and turning on in Mid-Snark.  My personal favorite was the cable company who sent me a final bill that was FOUR times higher than my monthly bill.  Why you might ask?  Because they didn’t show that we’d turned in the equiptment.  Good thing I have the receipt for it.  Then they ‘found’ the equiptment and gave us a credit — but not before I spent hours on the phone tracking it down, then waiting for the check to arrive.  URGH.

Finally, there was our cell phones.  After moving here and finally settling in, we changed our numbers.  So, we spent an hour at the local cell store changing our numbers making sure the plans didn’t extend and such.  Then I got the bill.  I got a bill that when I went to pay it, my bank flags as I’ve paid this within 30 days.  (I need to stop and say, I PINK, Puffy heart my bank.)  So, I go digging.  I realize that this is a new account number and I call.  Sure enough, the new phone number changes my account number — which means that I have a credit balance on my old account.  HOWEVER, that credit can not be applied because the old bill hasn’t closed and the new bill is due.  Forty-five minutes later, I finally had it worked out that would not be writing a check only to wait for a check back from them.  Shocking, I know, but I was pretty sure that the miracle of computers was such that it would allow a transfer of the funds from one account to another without wasting my time or any paper.  Idealist I know.

Well, today, I get the bill from the old account and I call.  I had to call, because it is not automatic to do this, and they could not set it up ahead of time.  So, I called.  I explained what I wanted to do to the first person.  She had to get someone to help me.  On hold.  She comes back and says, “We can’t move the balance because the two accounts are in two different states.”  UM, NO.  I wish to speak to someone else.  I get the guy who wouldn’t move the money — says something about policy about the two different states or something.  I explained, this is NOT what I was told; please read the notes in the system; and wasting my time would not make me happy.  On hold again.  He comes back and says, “Oh, the policy changed and I wasn’t aware.”  So, I said, “That means you didn’t try and said ‘No’ before you knew the facts — way to go for customer service.”

So, he moves the money around.  And he says, “Ok, the balance on the new account is $XX.XX”  Um, no.  I wrote a check, based on exactly what the last person told me do for $YY.YY.  The difference between $XX.XX and $YY.YY is $6.  Yes, I totally fought for $6.  I got it.  I got off the phone and looked at the timer — 45 minutes.

I’m glad that is done and didn’t waste anything like paper — apparently my TIME is fine though.  URGH.

Now, I’m off to Old Navy to buy my child much needed pants (why does he have to keep growing) and hope that some retail therapy will take the edge off.

You know there are times in your life that are frozen.  The people associated with them will never age.  The memory is like yesterday — though you have lived a lifetime since?

We tend to think of our school years that way.  I changed schools a total of five times (including going to college) and thus, I have frozen those people in my life at those ages.  My apologies to the folks I went to elementary school with, but you are frozen in your 7th grade selves in my mind — as are our teachers who seemed so old then.  I am stunned that any of them have children — though I have one of my own.  It doesn’t seem possible that my closest friend from junior high and high school has a girl child just three.  I can’t imagine the boys I dated to have grown up and been married with kids of their own.  But most shocking of all are the teachers.  I still expect to see some of them walking halls I never enter anymore.  They were part of the buildings themselves and thus should never have left.

I don’t expect them to have moved on; gotten married (who knew our kindergarten teacher married AND is now a grandmother to triplets?); or worse, they just aren’t allowed to die.

Perhaps I am so self-centered that I think that if I’m not in the room time for the rest of the world ought to stop; that people shouldn’t grow-up, grow older, grow on, without my presence.  I don’t really think that is it though.  This isn’t some warped Twilight Zone thing happening in my head.  It is the realization that our memories of people stop the minute they stop being in our lives.  Forever will they be in 7th grade, high school, or college.

And thus, I am rather stunned that the President of my university died today.  Oh, yes, I was stunned this May when he retired — because in my mind he ought not retire — was he even old enough?  But this morning, he died.  It was sudden and he was young.  But I remember him.

One winter term I took a class where we were asked to shadow someone we admired.  The Winter Term was a one class month long elective term where we encouraged (no, forced) to step out of our majors and do something different.  It had its roots in the 60’s, I’m sure, and has since gone the way of the dinosaurs.  Anyway, back to my class.  My classmates took on the ‘captains’ of industry (in DeLand) or various people in power — but none sought out anyone connected with the school.  I picked up my dorm room phone and called the President’s office.

It was a fabulous week.  I went to meetings that no student gets to see.  I peeked at the business of the university.  I did an alumni meet and greet (at which I met a couple who had met and married at Stetson and came back for their 60th reunion!)  I was in the paper.  Oh, it was a big deal.  I once asked Dr. Lee why he said yes and his answer was so simple, “You were the first person who ever asked.”

Years later, I met him again (he was unchanged I might add) in DC at an alumni function on Capitol Hill (which sounds cool, and was — though the cake was dry).  He remembered me on sight (nearly 10 years later) and spoke highly of our week together.  He told me that began a time when they invited students to meet him and shadow him.  More students learned there was more going on at college than the classrooms — because I asked.

His son is my age (or a year or two younger) and I hurt for him — because this is no time to lose a father.  And I’m sad.  But mostly, I’m hurt because my world view cracked a little today — people aren’t frozen in time.  And there’s one less person to visit at my university.

Last night I was so excited because one of my new friends is a teacher and has been calming my fears giving me advice about the upcoming school year.  After a kindergarten of ups and downs, I really wanted to give first grade a good shot.  To this end, I’ve been asking questions constantly.

(Mostly about stuff I’ve never dealt with before — like school supplies. And how can I make a teacher LOVE me — because it is all about me, right?)

Anyway, my friend, who is kind, gave me her cell phone number in case I freaked out had more questions.

So, I was telling Queen Mum how much better this made me feel and Mum asks, “Why does she think you’ll freak out?”  And I respond, “She’s met me.”  (Good thing, she’s met me and still seems to like me and my neuroses.)

But I didn’t have to call.  Today, when we went to see the school — I met the principle who said all the right things.  They shared all the right information.  And the best part, at no time was there an assuption that you ought to KNOW this stuff.

Thus, I raise my glass to my friends who ‘get’ me; to a school that ‘gets’ Duke (and me); and to a highly successful year.

So, I’m a wee bit scattered today.  I feel completely pulled in 1000 directions and none of them seem forward.  So I bring you just a wee bit of randomness today — and today, it is form of the open letter, because I feel like it.

Dear Mid-Snark-Target-Shopping-Cart drivers:

Ok, I realize that my manifesto on the proper driving of the shopping cart has not made it here yet, but please — for the love of all that is cheap — STOP parking your cart in the OPENING of an aisle.  Yes, it is always the aisle I need to walk down.  Yes, I expect you to move.  No, I don’t think I’m unreasonable when I ask you “May I PLEASE get my shopping done while you stop and do what???  Oh, yes, contemplate your naval.”

Yours,

The Queen

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Dear Squirrels:

I know you are mad because of the way cool baffle we installed to keep you out of the bird food.  Prince is considering installing a Squirrel Bungee — but that’s more for our enjoyment than yours.  But still — you will not win against my baffle.  Please stop trying:

Just remember you are not smart — and I am.

The Queen

PS Are you the one that was in my attic the other night?  If so, I have some yummy, yummy food for you.

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Dear Goldfinch Family:

Welcome to the neighborhood.  I hope you find that nest you are making comfy and want to raise some finchy babies here.  Do you want some yarn to make it complete or is that spider web working out for you?  Feel free to laugh at the squirrels when you grab a bite to eat.

Hope you like the food,

The Queen

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Dear Kids Camp:

Thank you so much for the fabulous summer you gave Duke.  He loved it so much and talks about it all the time.  However, would you take a few minor notes for next year?

• Move the vending machines and video games from right outside your room.  I spent way too much on that driving game that my son can’t really even reach the pedals.  On the upside, his goal of being a racing driver by age 8 will most certainly come true….as long as my quarters hold out.
• Perhaps you might want to rethink giving *MY* son a microphone.  Just saying.
• Thanks for the honorable mention in the talent show.  I’m thrilled he did such an outstanding job and I’m certain that his future as a stand-up comic will be waiting for him once he is off the racing circuit.  Also, thanks for planting that wee little seed into my son’s brain.
• Could you perhaps separate the girls and boys?  It was embarrassing to ME to have to wait for all the girls in his group to hug him good-bye daily.  Boy, who’d a thunk a group of 3rd graders would fall for him so quickly — it was the talent show, wasn’t it?  (So happy he doesn’t know his phone number yet.)
• Could you be less fun so that I wouldn’t have a ‘bored’ kid because there is NOTHING to do?

Thanks,

The Queen

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Finally.

Dear School:

Please start already.

Thanks,

The Queen

As I was about to retire last night, Prince heard a heart stopping sound.  He heard scratching above the bathtub in the hall bath.  Instantly, I went into full alert — doing all that you do to protect your family from such things.  I totally suggested we sell the house, move to Peru (I don’t think there are wild animals there — after all Paddington came from darkest Peru and he seems rather polite), and cried.  There might have been fretting, paranoid ramblings, and screaming — but really, who can remember?

So, I suggested that we relocate to somewhere that did not involve what is surely a raccoon in our attic.  Prince was unimpressed.  He shrugged, because he knows that every relationship is allowed one hysterical person at a time — and at that moment, I scored random hysterics, and kindly suggested that we in fact just call ‘a guy’ to relocate said beast.

(Let’s remember that it was merely yesterday when I praised my neighbors for being able to live in a house they once shared with a racoon mommy and five of her darling, disease carrying infants.  Because I was cocky and I have been smooten, ok?)

I do not sleep.  That’s not true.  I jump at every sound, like the dog breathing or a bug hitting the window outside for about 5 minutes — then I fall incredibly, totally, deeply asleep.  I do not move, stir, or merely breathe until this morning, when I sit bolt upright remembering that I have slumbered in a house which also has become home to a RODENT — probably a ROUS (Rodent of Unusual Size).

I log into my new favorite referral site for home repair (www.angieslist.com) and search for “Large deadly animal removal and killing service.”  I so wish I was kidding.  That yielded me nothing.  I tried again with “Rodent might kill me in my sleep.”  Shockingly, that also was without help.  So I settled on “Pest: Get it out NOW.”  I found the top rated pest company in my area that deals with everything from bugs to ROUSes — this was important because I have no idea what we actually have living in our attic, so I wanted ‘a guy’ to be able to do it all.

I call.  I speak to a nice man on the phone who tried to make me feel better and say, “Mam’ it is probably a mouse.  I know they are small but they can SOUND so big.”  I thought, through my haze, “What a nice man trying to explain to me that somehow a mouse is preferred to what is SURELY a very large, probably rabid raccoon.  Delusional, but nice.”

I waited.  I counted down the hours of my waiting until the heat of the day, when my door might right.  I was hoping for some strong, strapping exterminator guy who would say, “Step back, little lady, I’ve got this rabid beast under control.”  What I got at my door was “Harvard Hottie” from the Nanny Diaries.  Um, hi.  (Let’s take a small note that I was un-showered because there was NO way I was standing naked under the ‘Raccoon that is about to eat my house.’)

Well, HH was wearing nice khakis, a polo and um, are those dress shoes?  And he was here to take care of my raccoon?  It made no sense.  Perhaps they got my request wrong.  He insists that no, he is in fact there to figure out the animal and dispose/kill it for me.  Alrighty then, let me show you my closet.

HH climbs into the sauna feature of the house and climbs around.  Now, I sort of wanted to close HH into my closet so that when he was attacked by the raccoon, the animal would not descend into my house.  HH just laughed and said he’d be ok.  He went up into the attic with a winding flashlight and NO gloves.  I had to offer him my maglight just because I felt sorry for him not to have protection against the living beast in my attic.

While HH was inspecting the attic, Duke and I were discussing what might be up in our attic.  Raccoon?  No.  Squirrel? No.  Mouse? No.  Duke decided that we must have aliens in the attic — because he’d just seen the movie about it.  HH thought it was a mouse or squirrel and I was feeling a little faint when he PROMISED me that there was no way it was a raccoon.

We baited for mice, just in case.  Apparently, like this mythical snow people keep obsessing over here — squirrels and mice come and go from houses often.  OK.  We baited, we will have the only entrance that HH found that is possible fixed and we will attempt to sleep at night.

HH told Duke right before he left on his white horse — I meaning Ford Pick-up– “Dude, I think it is a mouse.  Let’s hope it is a mouse.  I can bait for a mouse — we haven’t perfected the bait for aliens yet.”

In another life, when we lived in Frankenhouse, we thought we had wildlife around.  We lived next door to chickens (who visited), we had birds a plenty in our yard (including a nesting hummingbird), we saw wild turkeys strut down the street, we saw deer so often that Prince ceased to share my joy in seeing deer (my thrill never ended). And of course we had our own zoo too.

Then we moved to Mid-Snark.  I don’t think that when Wild Kingdom was filmed they ever considered coming to Mid-Snark.  I know that this is not at all like New York City where the only wild life exists on the Upper East Side and in the Meat Packing District.  But I digress.  This is just not an area I thought I’d be seeing a ton of wild life.

When we moved in, we saw a single chipmunk in the yard.  I’ve not seen him again (though I think he relocated to my neighbor’s yard).  When my neighbors moved in, I met them as they were having a FAMILY of raccoons removed from their chimney.  (Yes, I’m serious — I don’t know how they sleep at night — but they had a mom racoon and her brood of 5 babies in their house — ICK.  I am glad they are made of stronger stuff than me — because I like them.

I saw deer from my window and took a photo of it.  I’ve seen them often but my neighbor has not — which I find funny and she thinks I’m making deer up.

So, finally, about a week or two ago, we hung up a bird feeder.  I had been driving through the neighborhood and saw American Goldfinches flying about — they are a sight.  So, we decided to feed them.  It took two days and the feeders were found and we took delights in the wildlife coming by to visit.  (No, I still have no idea what I’m looking at — but I’m slowly figuring it out.)  Then on Saturday, we noticed that there were a pair of squirels who found the feeders too.

These two absolutely PIGGED out.  I glanced out at one point and saw one swinging from the big feeder with his head completely in the feeder.  So, Prince and I decided it was off to find a solution to feed birds not squirrels.  I do have a strict no rodent policy in my feedings.

We went to a bird feeding store and got a ton of advice.  I do mean a ton!  We picked up the right things to make the squirrels mad and move along and the right food to attract the right birds.  We were also told to move our feeder from the tree — which I did.

Twenty minutes of work we loaded a total of four feeders (feeding different things), put together a new pole, and we waited.  Then…then… we began to see something.  (Can you find it?)

Then *MY* finches visited — they have been back a few times and I just KNOW that they are mine.

But, while protecting our seed from rodent, we weren’t ready for this little problem.

The good news is (Mum, take note) this animal is *NOT* mine.  The bad news is that he ran off before I could explain to him that I was not baiting traps of birds for HIM.  He will need to know the rules of this yard — perhaps the deer can explain it.

I have more to say about a few other things — but this will have to do for now.

First, yes, I’m a geek who reads Woot’s blog.  Um, yes — I know…you thought I was SO much cooler than that.  Funny, I hear that all the time.

Any way….

Dear Woot people,

This is not KNIT.  This is crochet.  Do not confuse them again, please.

Respectfully,

The Queen

I have a friend whose son is in <gasp> middle school, who tells my favorite kid/mom story.  This young man was in kindergarten or first grade and he told his mom one day, “Mom, I don’t think you should kiss me good-bye in front of the kids at school — it embarrasses them when you do that.”

She told me this story probably weeks after I met her, when Duke was just 2.  I know the day will come with a hug and kiss goodbye will be the worst thing I can do to him — up there with packing liver for lunch, I am sure.  But at the time I thought that was held for middle school and not early grade school.  So, of course I instantly took her words as cause for worry for how soon I’d be shunned from my son’s hugs and kisses.

Today, I took my newly minted six year old to the doctor for (ahem, I have something in my eye) a ‘physical’ — a school phyiscal.  You know, they call these visits Well-Baby (up to about 2 years old) then Well-Child (2 to 5 years old) visits until they start school….then we jump to ‘physicals.’  I have no idea when he is going to have an ‘annual check-up’ but frankly I think I’m not allowed in the room for that one.

The good news is that he is fine and healthy and growing.  There is no bad news, except I think I might be facing paying for med school since my son could not stop asking the doctor and the nurses about all their instruments, what they do, why they measure this or that.  He blew them away with his fascination.

Anyway, he is at summer camp this week and I had to take him late because of the doctor’s office.  I’d talked to the camp before and found out where they were going to be.  They weren’t there of course and I had to find his group.  He gets there and one of the girls asks him to join her team and he runs off.  I hand over the swim bag and the lunch and go to walk off.

Duke turns and chases after me.  He jumps into my arms and says, “I didn’t get my hug and kiss.”  “Buddy, I thought you didn’t need one, since you’d run off without it when we got here.  I’m sorry.”  “I can’t do this without a hug and a kiss.” Yup, I melted.

Maybe I have another year (two?) before it embarrasses the other children when I hug and kiss him.  But for now, my son still needs the power of a hug and a kiss to get through tough days at camp.

Happy Love Thursday.

I doubt it will come as any great shock that I have a love of the theater.  If I ever thought I could have made a living, or somehow liked to eat less, I would have majored in Theater in college and run away to become an Equity actor long, long ago.  Shocked, right?  I always seemed so sensible, right?  Well, it all goes out the window when I walk into the theater.

I think the first time I ever was on stage (that I remember) was my Kindergarten graduation.  I really don’t count that, as I don’t think I had a special part.  By 4th grade, I appeared as a cow — shut up, I was one awesome cow.  But my peak in performing in elementary school was as a bell in the Christmas play.  I was Beautiful Bell, I think — I know I wore royal blue tights and leotard, something that was a pain for my mom to find at Christmas time.  I had lines and I rocked the part.  My big line had something to do with telling another bell that he ‘had bats in his belfry.’ I digress.

Anyway, I performed as much as a small high school without a real drama program would allow.  I auditioned for a production my freshman year of college and while I didn’t get the part, I was pass on to the community theater for a part in ‘A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum’  — I wore a red wig and some peacock feathers.  After that production, I started to do far more work behind the scenes.  I stage managed, I painted, I helped with costumes, I helped.  I appeared on stage once more after that — a bit part, where I played a god in a production that was so not noteable that I do not recall the name of it.  But for most of college I spent a fair bit of time in a small theater.

Then I graduated and moved on to real life, thinking I’d return to theater at some point.  Oh, sure I’ve gone to see many plays, but I always thought sitting the audience was a poor substitute to being ‘involved.’  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen shows that have moved me to tears and some had me weak with laughter.  I love to attend, and don’t turn down chances — but if you asked me my preference, I’d be on stage or behind it over in the audience every single days (and twice on Sunday).  To me there is magic in the producing, not just the performing.  But I put that in the someday category….someday…

Well, it just so happened that with a certain child’s birthday, there was a production of Mary Poppins in the area.  With great joy the Queen Mum, Duke, and one (overly excited) Queen went to enjoy the theater.  I can’t tell you the thrill of watching something you love being loved by your child. It took every once of my mommy will not to get sucked into the play myself to watch my child get the same look in his eyes that I once got.

He was enchanted and thrilled.  We spoke of the sets moving and changing afterwards.  He was (like I have been so many times) literally a part of the play.

I remember the high and mighty theater classes I’ve taken.  They speak of the audience as part of the show.  They speak how the audience reacts as being a character itself and changing nightly.  I always thought that was weird.  I always thought the idea was just trying to make something so special have meaning it didn’t have.  Yes, as the audience you are asked to suspend disbelief. You are asked to react and engage — but you are not truly part of the experience.  From my point of view, the play is built in the weeks and months of work to get it ready for the audience.  It is in the blood, sweat, and tears of the those who work, not those who just show up and watch.  What did they bring to the table?  What work did they do?  Why are they elevated to participant when truly they are merely observers.

But then I watched my son.  I watched him not just suspend disbelief, but become part of the story.  He played with the children.  He ran away from nannies.  He flew a kite with Michael and fed birds with Jane.  He danced with statues and shook hands with Sweeps.  He was there and LIVED it all for those hours.

So, for a few hours the theory of theater was correct.  We played a key role in the production of this single performance.  And it was good.  It was really good.  Not because the singing was above par or that the dancing would put the Lord of the Dance to shame — but solely because we were there and we were enchanted.

For the first time in years, I’ve started to hear the sirens’ call of the theater again.  I just checked out an audition (and a few tech positions) and I may or may not pursue it.  I see volunteering again as a possibility.  But I might start exploring that new role I just found as audience with my son.  I wonder what worlds we will conquer together and where we might go.  But mostly, I wonder if he will love it like I do — and thus far, my magic 8-ball says — YES.