I have been very careful to keep Work out of the blog spotlight, lest I find myself among those numbers they quote when the talking heads discuss “new unemployment claims” and “jobs cut” each month.  I shall still attempt to be anonymous and generic and cull that self-preservation instinct which has been gradually developing since the days of my early 20s when I would often go for 4 mile walks by myself at twilight in the shoulders of not-quite-highways.  Mr. Apron has helped me see danger everywhere.  I even asked for a Club for my car when I had my first practicum in a North Philadelphia public school.  And used it, too.

But after last Friday’s events, I’ve been stewing and I have decided to spill, as I am able.  It all began back in August.  Cue the harp strings in arpeggiated descent.  We were at last hiring new staff members after being short critical members of our office.  And, as the new person would be in the office 4 days a week, to my 2 days, she would be getting my primo real estate desk.  The official story was that she would benefit from the comradeship of a woman in the same office who shared the same job title and could offer mentorship.  It seemed an open-and-shut case.  Her needs trumped mine, but I would be getting a brand-new desk and shelves (!!!) on which to store my crap.  Then, a week before the “move” I got an e-mail telling me to put my plans into a holding pattern, that something else was coming down the pipeline.  Seems someone else wanted my new desk.  She, having, I guess, seniority, and also being in the office 5 days a week, got my new spot, someone else took hers, and I was crammed into the vacated corner desk.  I went from 4 filing cabinet drawers to 1 plus a drawer for pens and post-its.  Menial stuff, right?  I could manage.  Right?  I settled in, telling myself all the above statements calmly, rationally, and tried to work. 

Two weeks later, I was informed I would be moved again, this time to accommodate a 5 day a week-er, another new addition to the staff.  The more, the merrier!  Finally we were full enough to serve the children, yet a little short on space.  Needless to say, she was given my desk, such as it was. 

The great part is, the situation was presented to me as a “What ought we to do?” conundrum, not as a done deal.  As if I had some say in the matter, that my creative brainstorming might lend me a greater outcome than some company mandate.  I tried to be rational again; I tried to think over the options.  In truth, I am only in that office 2 afternoons a week, for a total of 5 hours.  For 5 hours, I can be nomadic if need be.  Right?  For 5 hours I can do my paperwork on the conference/lunch table, and store my files in some filing cabinet shoved in a corner.  I’m only there 2 afternoons.  I don’t have any seniority, or any say in the matter anyway.  But it all looked like my choice when I suggested I hang my shingle on the small piece of counter in the back office.  Besides, the other “option” offered to me was to work on the extra rickety computer terminal “desk” that had been relegated to a corner of the conference room.  So I prepared to move yet again, to a space I affectionately refer to as “my slab”. 

 Again, it would seem as though I were handling it like a champ, telling everyone how okay I was with it all, being so flexible and accommodating and understanding of all these logical events.  Except that I was going through some intense personal/health issues back in September, and overreacted in line with crazy woman hormonal insanity. When I heard this (or, as it would seem, when I “decided” this), I immediately broke down into tears.   Because that’s a normal reaction for being told to move your desk.   

I miss the nice community I had in my space last year.  I miss those people I used to sit and kibbitz with.  I miss how we each talked to ourselves simultaneously.  And I miss that mentorship I had with the other speech therapist in that office, because learning from someone more experienced really is important.  I had prepared to develop something similar in my new office, except that two weeks later I was on the road again. 

It’s hard enough to be an itinerant speech therapist while seeing children.  It’s harder still to feel itinerant in the office.  I’ve been stationed at my slab now for 3 months and I still can’t work back there, in the darkest corner of the smallest, darkest space.  I bring my paperwork out to the conference room.  I almost physically can’t pull my chair out enough to sit at my slab without bumping into another coworker.  And it makes me sad.  I want to feel comfortable there, comfortable to bring in a picture of my husband and dog, comfortable to bring in my own tacky mug to hold pens, but there’s no physical space for those creature comforts.  

Last Friday, another “It’s your choice” moment was presented to me.  As if the office weren’t fairly bursting with new faces and improvised workspaces, yet another coworker has been added to our ranks.  Another speech therapist who will be there 2 afternoons a week, just like me.  And.  She.  Will.  Be.  Sharing. My.  Slab. 

Because we won’t be there on the same afternoons, wouldn’t it just make so much sense for me to share it?  My response to the “offer”: If she really wants to.  If she really wants to start a new job fresh out of school being relegated to sharing a small area of countertop and being given one measly file drawer (yup – lost the one for pens and post-its) with me, I would be more than happy to do so. 

I’m very happy to see so many faces in the office.  The overall workplace feeling is very supportive and productive during those couple of hours we’re all at “homebase”.  The kids we try to serve will finally be getting all the services they need, and we’ll be providing good therapy by knowledgeable clinicians.  I’m just feeling a little slighted, and a little tired of taking one for the team. 

Though I know it’s going to look great on my yearly performance review.  

I’m going to take a break from brooding about Christmas for a while.  I’ve finally seen some tasteful lawn decor — giant blue ornamental balls dangling from a barren deciduous tree, and not a blow-up character in sight — but I’m burning out on all the family time, holiday shopping, charity appeals, endless baking, and scheduled commitments.  I’m ready to bring you another installment in my “series” of favorite therapy toys/techniques. 

Actually, this one is more about the therapist/adult as the toy.  Surprisingly, I don’t mean this literally.  I’m well aware of the wonderful times that can be had swinging children upside-down from their toenails, flying them in circles, and flinging them onto resilient sofas.  I’ve wanted to fling many a hyperactive child, for the right and wrong reasons.  Hanen is a beautifully designed series of programs for parents helping their children to communicate.  In their program developed for children with autism-spectrum disorders or difficulty with the social aspects of communication, they advocate the human-as-toy approach, though I come at my ideas a little differently.

In Hanen, you, the adult, involve yourself as part of the play to make the play include a human aspect.  Instead of filling up a bucket with toys, you might use the bucket as a hat on your head, and let the child delight in seeing it fall off your head again and again.  You might build a train track that uses your legs as a tunnel, or hide toys in your hands.  Either way, you’re looking for opportunities for interaction and communication in play, and, truly, in a multitude of everyday activities. 

The reason I think of my ideas as using myself as part of the therapy is that I am often wearing the toy.  I am the toy.  I try to bring something irresistable (for a 3-5 year old) that impels them to communicate.  Though I may be every bit the bill-paying adult,  I often dress in a manner that is a combination of easy-maneuvering for work + machine-washable + kid-friendly that sometimes leaves me feeling a bit like I’m 12 years old.  The pigtails don’t help, I’m sure.  It’s nice not to be limited to dress pants, button-down shirts, blazers, and high-heels for work apparel.  I could very easily pull on scrubs, as many teachers and therapists who work with preschoolers are inexplicably doing these days.  I much prefer, however, to wear Snoopy skirts, striped tights, My Little Pony sweatshirts, and WALL-E barrettes.  Yes I do.  I made the Snoopy skirt out of an old bedsheet.  I made the WALL-E barrettes out of Shrinky-Dinks. 

In my personal life, I would much prefer to eschew commercialized products for children.  In my previous life teaching at a Quaker school, it was the school philosophy, and I grew to appreciate it very much.  Were I working solely with typically developing children, you’d be more likely to hear the following exchanges:

Timmy: “Look at my new light-up Disney Cars holographic supersonic animated licensed character sneakers!”

Me: “Are your shoes fast?”

Jojo: “Do you like my new Disney princess Cinderella Jasmine Ariel Belle lunchbox?  It has a matching Thermos”

Me:  “I like you!”

Now, however, I’ve found that kids who do not/will not talk about anything else, will come to life when they seem familiar characters.  Their faces will light up when they see my WALL-E barrettes.  “Why you got WALL-E in you hair?”  “Hey! Dat Robot in you hair!”  “Yook!  Wall-E!”  I remember the first time I observed this phenomenon.  A new school year has just begun, and a little girl who had a speech delay and wasn’t saying much more than 2 words at a time, even though she was almost 4, was shyly flitting around the classroom.  I tried to engage her in a conversation of some sort, and finally asked after her shoes, which looked new as they were still white.  She looked at them, she looked at me, and she burst out, “PONIES!”  We bonded over My Little Pony.

Though they don’t really recognize Snoopy anymore, and I haven’t gone all-out in Disney paraphernalia, I still marvel at the power of a familiar TV character to elicit a response in reluctant talkers.  

It is expressly for this purpose that I have kept somewhat up-to-date on my knowledge of current children’s TV programming and toys.  Well, maybe not exclusively.  I love PBS kids television shows.  I’ve been watching Arthur since high school.  I’m hooked on “Fetch” and “Cyberchase”, though those are a bit over my students’ age levels.  I know about Backyardigans and Caillou.  I can recognize Wubbzy.  I seek out Spongebob on On Demand.  Barney has always made me vomit, and I can’t sit through an episode of Blue’s Clues the way I can with Sesame Street, but I keep up.  And I think it pays off. 

The other gimmick I use in making myself the toy is nail polish.  I noticed that a particular child who otherwise would not say much voluntarily and would just sit there unnoticed in a corner of the classroom like a bump on a log took one look at my nails and launched into a dissertation on the colors and benefits of nail polish.  She counted the number of yellow-colored ones, compared it to the number of red-colored ones, and recited the alternating pattern that Mr. Apron had unwittingly created when he painted my nails in alternating hues.  She told me who paints her nails at home, and how she hopes to get them painted soon.  Even children who are non-verbal, or “communicate with their eyes” have been known to stop what they’re doing and focus on my nails.  They may rub them gently, examine their own, count them, or – gasp! – look up at me and make eye contact. 

My nail polish is my bling.  I don’t wear make-up. I don’t put much time into my hair.  I can’t wear much jewelry to work.  The one piece of jewelry I wear is my wristwatch.  No one seems to wear these anymore either, which of course immediately makes children focus on my wrist.  My watch is pretty special, too, since it’s a self-winding skeleton watch with a chunky orange band.  What does this mean?  It means that it has endless moving parts, and you can see through it to the winding mechanism in the back.  When you shake the watch, you can see the weight swing around and wind the watch.  You can see not only the hands ticking, but also all the gears moving.  It’s really cool.  And kids think so, too.  I’ve engaged a small class of children “timing” them as they run around the gym, exhausting themselves.  I’ve used it as a reward to keep kids focused for a few more minutes.  And I occasionally let them hold it (ah, only a few trustworthy kiddos) and shake it themselves. 

These little things – the familiar characters I can share, the nail polish Mr. Apron chooses, the wristwatch I use to make sure I’m giving them the right amount of therapy – make me more kid-friendly.  It doesn’t have to be Mickey Mouse scrubs, or a shirt with the entire alphabet on it.  They don’t care about how tall I am, how I wear my hair, what religion I observe, or how old I am.  They don’t care I can find acceptable gifts for my mother this year, or if I remembered to shut the dog gate this morning.  They only see what I can present to them.  Inadvertently, or by choice, I have found little gimmicks that can help me do my job by making communication with me a little more exciting, a little more rewarding, and, hopefully, for the hard-to-reach kiddos, irresistible.  

I’m Jewish and I hate Christmas.  There, I’ve said it.  Do you really need to read any more?

Yet somehow I’m going to muster my strength to tell you more.

I hate the commercialism as much as anybody.  I hate to see people who can’t afford to pushing around two shopping carts at Target or Walmart or Toys ‘R Us loaded with crappy plastic toys that have no scope for imagination.  They epitomize everything I hate about the way we thrust junk on our kids and throw money at foreign toy-makers with recognizable characters emblazoned on their products.  Why again do we need Dora cereal and ice cream?  Why is Spongebob on my backpack and my lunchbag?  Why does my step-nephew have a Disney “Cars” television set?  Why does a four-year-old need his own TV? How did I even get a step-nephew?

More than the overt commercialism, I hate the way Christmas is shoved down our throats en masse.  Whether it’s churches being “clever” with their signboards reminding us of the Reason for the Season or a timeless, heartwarming Santa bringing Coca-Cola to the polar bears population, it’s everywhere.  It’s in the tacky traffic signal colored lights our neighbors string up, the giant blow-up snowmen, reindeer, and snow globes that threaten to jump out at me from the tiny lawns.  It’s everywhere.  I can’t stand shopping during this “season” because of the infernal Christmas carols.  Jewish or not, I have not yet met one person who enjoys the retail nose pollution of the top 140 Christmas songs.  The B101 radio station actually plays this garbage non-stop throughout the month of December.  Can you imagine how much their listenership drops if you don’t count mall franchise stores? 

And don’t try telling me people choose to listen to B101, and choose to play Christmas music in their retail establishments.  Don’t tell me I can choose to avoid these things, because they’re everywhere.  Mr. Apron’s uncle couldn’t attend our play two weeks ago, because on Sunday, the one day a week his store is closed, he had to put up his Christmas display in the front window and decorate the store.  He is a Jewish man, as Jewish as they come, and he is not beholden to any franchise or chain mandate.  This is a Jewish man who owns his own business, and is compelled to deck his halls for fear of seeming heretical. 

Tonight Mr. Apron and I made the grievous mistake of venturing back down to West Chester, PA, where our beloved play was performed 2 weeks ago, to see our friends perform a 40-minute opera in the historic courthouse.  We didn’t know, or had conveniently forgotten, that it was part of the “Old Fashioned Christmas” (their quotes) in the historic downtown.  The drive down was the usual rush hour madness, but what was worse was trying to cram the 6 zillion cars into the 17 parking spots not marked “resident permit parking only, zone A”.  Finally, about ready to give up and drive back home, we found a spot scarcely longer than my little Honda Fit, and into which no other car (save a Smart car, a 3-door Yaris, or a Ford Fiesta) could have fit.  All while slurping down hot soup from Panera. 

I chose soup because we had little time to wait for food to be prepared, and the line was out the door.  (On a Friday night.  In West Chester.  Yes, it’s that kind of town…a town with a vibrant downtown full of acclaimed restaurants, where the populace chooses Panera, a subsidiary of McDonald’s.  But I digress.) I slurped it down while vainly trying to keep the soup off of my new red wool coat.  See how festive I can be?  I burned my tongue because the coat was more valuable to me in the moment, and the faster I inhaled my soup, the lower the liquid line went, as did my chances of spilling.  We rushed to the courthouse, past the sheriff’s deputies earning some pretty overtime, and sat down to a delightful opera. 

I did not sing along with the carols after the show.  I don’t know the lyrics, and even though they thoughtfully provided lyric cheat sheets for the goyim who don’t know the words either, I chose not to sing.  I used to sing.  In 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th grades, when I was in the chorus, I would sing along to the dozen Christmas songs, and one Chanukah song in the holiday program.  I don’t have to sing now because those aren’t my songs, and my parents aren’t in the audience forcing smiles.  They’re fine for other people, but I’m not singing about Christ and Saviors and Bethlehem and the inevitable talk of miracles that seems to pervade all religions this time of year.  They’re not my miracles.  And I’m certainly not singing about figgy pudding. 

If that makes me bitter, bitchy, hostile, or intolerant, so be it.  All my life I’ve been misunderstood by people who were ignorant or intolerant, because I’m Jewish.  I’m not trying to “fight back”.  I’m expressing my rights and my choices.  I went tonight to see and support my friends, who, by the way, did a fabulous job.  And I don’t think anyone noticed my mouth not moving, or missed my voice when they wished each other a Merry Christmas. 

So then we left, and had to fight our way through yet another anxiety-producing situation.  In the 45 minutes since we had entered the courthouse, approximately 42 thousand merry souls had descended upon the streets wearing Christmas sweaters, Santa Claus hats, and balaclavas.  And they were all, each and every one of them, blocking my speedy egress.  I held onto Mr. Apron’s hand tightly, and he steered us through the merriness.  We fought and clawed our way to the street corner, where the conveniently located opening in the police barricades was completely blocked off by people trying to get a good look at the impending parade. 

Yes, a parade.  At 8 o’clock on a Friday night in December.  To mark the “Old Fashioned Christmas”.  The only thing old-fashioned we saw was one strange man wearing a top hat.  I heard decidedly not-old-fashioned Christmas music being pumped into the streets by some definitely not-old-fashioned DJ setup.  I saw some decidedly not-old-fashioned commercialized festivities.  And I wanted out more than anything.  I hate huge crowds of people.  Being 5 feet tall, I cannot see over most people’s heads, and in trying to see where I’m going, I trip over small children and strollers.  Mr. Apron’s bony shoulders and 6 foot tall frame edged his way through some stubborn parade watchers, and he led me across the street, through another throng packed tightly at another “opening” and, finally, away from the madness, passing only disgruntled teenagers with pink hair, dressed in black, and smoking cigarettes.  I hated them, too. 

I tried, folks.  I wore my red coat, I persevered in finding a parking spot, I did not have a complete nervous breakdown in the middle of the street.  But it found me anyhow.  Somehow it came.  It came with small children, it came with police barricades.  It came without sparkles or snowdrops or grenades.  I hadn’t stopped Christmas from coming; it came.  Somehow or another it came just the same. 

And that’s just fine.  Just don’t shove it down my throat. 

I hope to be doing a haphazard series on toys that I love when working with preschoolers with speech and language delays, or for the 3-5 age group in general.  Since I have the opportunity to be in many different classrooms, I’m gathering a compilation of toys I prefer, and will definitely be buying for my own kids, whenever they come along!

I love toys that break.  I love toys with a million pieces.  I love taking them out, and I love putting them away.  Either I am a sick masochist, or I am a speech-language pathologist.  I’ll let you decide.

The great thing about toys with a million pieces is that I get the opportunity to present each piece as a communicative event.  For a child learning to request — verbally or with pictures — seeing a peg, or a bead, or a sticker staring them in the face, tantalizingly close, can spur communication.  Ooh, shiny.  Oooh, pretty.  Ooh, that mean lady only let me have one at a time.  I’ll show her.  I’ll ask for it again and again until she’s all out and I have them all!!!  Precisely.  Repetition helps solidfy these foundational skills. 

And guess what cleaning up is?  I love to use boxes with lids and make a terrific game out of cleaning up.  Kids working on articulation sounds might have to say a “magic word” (and no, it’s not “please”) for the lid to open.  That lid only allows one block in at a time, and it’s only triggered by the magic word of the day/moment.  Sneaky kids try to shove in as many pieces as they can before I shut the lid on their fingers  (oops, did I just admit that?).  With that element of a game, somehow, cleaning up just became fun. 

Another fantastic opporunity for repetition is in toys that break.  I don’t mean literally “break”; more accurately, I like toys that fall down, break apart, and require frequent “maintenance”.  Giant foam blocks are an easy one, especially for kids who just enjoy stacking.  If the tower is a little too sturdy, a gentle tap from a well meaning adult, will induce peals of laughter, a couple of “uh oh!”s and maybe some “it fell down”s.  I can’t tell you how many /f/ sounds I’ve elicited using toys that fall down.  I can’t tell you how many children who are autistic or otherwise introverted have been tempted by the allure of the perpetually falling tower.  Once they get past their initial frustration that this. stupid. thing. will. not. stay. up. they’re usually quite content to just keep on building.  Another toy in this genre I love is Unifix cubes.  While initially one might see only the limitations — they only connect linearly, and cannot be used to build in 3 dimensions, they’re more suitable for learning colors, sorting, and counting — I find them invaluable for their tendency to break apart at a certain length/height.  Precisely because they can only make lines, kids tend to either build up (making “towers”), or on the floor (making “snakes”).  And since I need my toys to have a million pieces, I use something like 200 Unifix cubes with one child, and the towers inevitably get too high.  The snakes invariably need to be moved to avoid furniture and people.  And in moving the snakes, they break apart.  In constructing towers taller than my munchkin clientele, they fall down. 

Repetition, repetition, repetition.  Kids are learning perseverence as they start all over again.  They’re learning problem-solving when they ask me to hold the base of the tower (never dreaming I’m the one behind the sabotage).  They’re measuring short and long, small and “big tall”.  They’re trying to make the snakes longer than me, the towers taller than they are.  And yes, they are sorting and labeling colors.  They are counting and occasionally making patterns.  And with my million pieces,  I also get opportunities for speech sounds or grammatical forms (“No, me do it!” is  popular refrain) as they earn pieces.  We also take turns as we put together towers and snakes.  We reinforce eye contact when I hold pieces in front of my face.  And you’d better believe it’s a big clean-up when we’re done.

Mr. Apron and I watch “Cops”, that never-to-be-cancelled Fox program that always opens with either, “Well, my dad was a cop, and my granddaddy, too, so I always figured I’d be a cop and give back to my community,”  or “You never know what’s going to happen; each day is different.” 

Each show is different, too, but with some comforting predictability and regularity.  The perps always complain when they get rough-housed.  They always deny wrong-doing and have flimsy excuses.  The battered spouses can never decide who threw the first blow.  And they always run “cuz I wuz scerred”. 

My family makes fun of us for watching Cops.  Judging from the targeted commercials for big trucks and the “repo” show, we’re probably not their typical audience, either.  But I will defend our choice to watch the show.  It was the first of its kind, and still holds its own among a vast field of other “ride along with the pros” shows.  We’ve tried others, and they just don’t measure up.  We watched “Jail” one night – the pacing was deadly and it was just depressing images of people crying as they sobered up in cinder block cells.  The only amusing part was when they put a helmet on some chick who kept banging her head against the walls. 

Supernanny is another reality show we sometimes watch.  While it’s great and all, Jojums always offers the same advice to the parents – the naughty chair/step/bench/corner/room – because they are usually hesitant to use any structure or discipline whatsoever.  The moms bond with their daughters, the dads throw a football with the sons, and she pulls away in the London Taxi just the same. 

Animal Planet has an “animal police” program, which just plain sucks.  We couldn’t make it through one episode.  It was geared more towards the animal-loving girlie-horsie cop-as-social-worker crowd.  And I’m a girlie, animal-loving vegetarian whose sister is going to be a social worker.  I couldn’t stand it. Just arrest the dumb bitch who starved her animals, haul the horses away, and cut to the high-speed chase already.

Then you’ve got your homeowner type shows, whose “real” characters (homeowners) are so painful they have to script each line of the program. 

“Why, hello, Mrs. S.  How can we help you today?”

(Awkwardly and rehearsed) “Hi, Bob.  We bought this house (insert #) years ago, and have just about finished renovating, but we still have some radiators which need to be repainted (or insert other unfinished project).” 

(With false enthusiasm) “Great, well why don’t we get started?”

(blandly) “Sure.  Let me show you the (insert room of home)”

Then there’s the show where they set up a false dichotomy of maximally opposed choices.  Pick your genre of show – House Hunters, Trading Spouses, Wife Swap, Blind Date, Meanest Parents, etc.  And who can forget the shows where they inject the same kinds of crisis each and every episode – Top Chef, Cake Boss, Say Yes to the Dress, etc.  Yes, they’re fun if you watch them sparingly, but we have cable now, folks!  These things are on all day long!!  I’ve seen them already, I have 99 other channels, and there still isn’t anything on TV!?

But the best reason to watch Cops is for the education.  I have learned, though careful analysis, what to do, and what not to do when stopped by the police.

• Keep your hands where he/she can see them.
• Do not try to climb out of the car until you are told.  There’s no quicker way to get a gun drawn in your direction.
• Do not reach into your pockets.
• If found with a gun, do not say some black guy just gave it to you 15 minutes ago.
• A Puerto Rican named Ernie did not loan you the car.
• If you manage to throw the drugs/paraphernalia/weapons from the car, they are still considered “on your person”.  Even if they’re not on you.  For real.  If you throw it from the car, or as you’re running, they’ll find it. 
• If they find it in your car, it’s yours.  It’s not your grandma’s weed.  Even if it is, they won’t believe you.
• Large amounts of cash arouse suspicion.  Take debit when dealing drugs, or set up mobile Paypal using your iPhone. 
• If you’re hanging out in parking lots at 2am, no cop will believe you just got off work unless you’re in your uniform. 
• If you’re prone to get sweaty when confronted by authority figures, wear performance clothing – Underarmor, Sweat it Out, Cool Max – and strong deodorant.  Cops can smell fear. 
• Lines that do not work – “I ran because I was scared,” “I swear to God,” “I swear on my grandmother’s grave,” “I didn’t hear the sirens or see the lights,” “I’m being straight with you,” “I didn’t do nothing,” and, my favorite, “It’s not mine.” 
• If you’re a female, they’re more likely not to handcuff you.  Stay calm, and you stand a good chance of going home.  Unless you’re an overweight female and you’re not wearing a bra. Or you’re an underweight bimbo in stilettos.
• When they handcuff you “for your protection and ours,” chances are, you’ll get arrested, even if they tell you, “You’re not under arrest.” 
• They cannot loosen the handcuffs for your comfort. 

And, finally,

• No, repeat offenders will not learn from their mistakes, will not miraculously clean up their acts and stop boozing, stealing, abusing, streaking, slutting it up, or using.  That’s where the social workers come in. 

Mr Apron thinks I should blog more.  He even nominated me for some distinction on 20SBs to the effect.  He’s out on the town tonight, and I have 20 minutes before I’m out to go visit with friends, so I think I”ll oblige him!

The show was a hit.  I sold tickets to anyone who would listen to me rant.  We hit record audience attendance by our closing, and on Saturday night and Sunday, we earned extra curtain calls.  I was beaming as the curtain closed, and my face hurt from smiling.  The last time it hurt from smiling was at our wedding.  It was a great feeling as we closed the show, and made me feel like I CAN do this again.  Despite all the feelings of inadequacy vis-a-vis my dancing, my singing, my ability to memorize lines, it turned out fine in the end.  The off-stage drama in no way hindered the on-stage magic, and given the amount of backstage insanity, it’s a miracle.  We suffered through unforgivable absenteeism in the women’s chorus, leads and choristers who dropped out, leaving gaps to fill; sickness among cast and crew including diabetes, a car accident, pneumonia, lost voices, and other unspeakables; mishaps with the costumes, disagreements with the facility, and bickering among the cast.  One pirate proudly told the make-up mistress that he was the “boss” when it came to deciding which and how much make-up he was going to wear.  And yet it all happened in the end. 

Now, I have a strange amount of time on my hands!  Mr. Apron and I found ourselves at home on Tuesday evening unsure what to do with ourselves.  I confessed to Mr. Apron last night I was concerned that now the show is over, I’ll sink back into my old routines (when I’ m home alone) of rotting in front of the computer, and rotting in front of the television.  As engaging as the My Aquarium app is on Facebook, and as much education as I’m gleaning from Cash Cab and Spongebob, I feel my mother’s voice in my head, saying, “Do you need a ‘project’?”  Which is code for, “You’re not doing anything productive.  Let me occupy you with mindless tasks and things I don’t have time/inclination to do myself.  And I would find myself sewing sweaters for dogs, wrapping presents for other people’s godmothers, shucking corn, taking out recycling, walking dogs, taking bags of stuff upstairs, and hauling other bags of stuff downstairs.  She anticipates my reaction to the above question now, when I visit ye olde homesteade, and has taken to asking if I”d like a “P-word”.  I still shudder.  I need to occupy myself.  If I don’t, I feel depressed about how unproductive I’m being, which makes me more melancholy.  And then I do even less.

So Mr. Apron had some ideas for me last night, as we lay falling asleep, yet unable to stop talking.  We call these times “slumber parties”, recalling the sleepovers of my youth when no one was able to actually fall asleep and my mild-mannered father would come upstairs several times throughout the night to shush us.  He suggested I take another art class at the art center nearby, or take on some more students to tutor (I’m down to one kiddo per week), or rejoin the JCC to combat the lethargy I feel when I look at sewing patterns and realize how sewing larger sizes than I care to makes me feel.  Since art classes cost $200-300, and it’s late in the semester, that one is out, but I’m digging the JCC idea.  Mr. Apron gets a discount for being an EMT, and we live SO CLOSE to the JCC it’s kind of ridiculous that we can’t haul our asses down there twice a week to feel better about ourselves.  Something to do + something to about the tightness in my pants that has crept up since August and stubbornly not. gone. away = a very good idea indeed. 

I love my husband.  He helps me find ways to feel better about myself without berating me for feeling bad about myself.  I am thankful for him all year round.  Thanks for encouraging me to blog.  I love you.

Well, folks, opening night has come and gone.  Mr. Apron asked me, on the ride home, if I get nervous being on stage, after so many years behind the scenes, or in the audience.  On Sunday, when we had our first run-through on the stage in the performance space, I was disoriented.  I didn’t have trouble translating the set-up we had used in our rehearsal space; I didn’t have trouble figuring my stage left from my stage right.  I was struck by the existence of the space beyond the stage.  The rehearsal space (choral pratice room) had no audience.  We used every inch of the space for dancing, mincing about, and singing.  The edge of our “stage” was a mere 2 inches from the piano.  We had no trouble coming all the way downstage.  The first time I stepped downstage on our real stage, I was apprehensive of falling off into the orchestra pit.  I spend some time upstage, and some time all the way down, teetering on the edge.  And, frankly, it was a little scary to stare out into the seat of blackness which would hopefully be full of people come opening night.  Scarier still was opening my mouth to sing, and hearing my voice be sent forth into the blackness.  I don’t particularly care for the sound of my own voice, sung or spoken, and hearing myself so exposed humbled me even further.  Thank goodness for all the choral numbers.  I don’t think I could stand having any solo parts. 

Last night, though, with my glasses off, I pranced and minced, and sang and danced, and acted and reacted.  I mention the fact that I had my glasses off, because the audience was just fuzzy enough that I would not have recognized anybody out there.  It was thus quite easy to keep up my 4th wall!  No, I didn’t feel stage fright, or nerves.  My stomach did, but I wasn’t particuarly nervous.  All the excitement at having our costumes, and make-up and props and scenery fueled our performance, our opening night.  Having friends in the audience, wherever they were seated, helps too. 

I don’t know how I was able to get up and go to work this morning, but I did.  It started with the street sweeper at 6:15am, which sounded strangely like teenagers driving by in their low-riders with the stereo on and the bass turned way up.  Mr. Apron freaked and encouraged me to hustle to move my car.  No place really to put it until I left for work at 7:30am, since all surrounding streets were also being swept.  And there were still hundreds of cars parked.  It seems unreasonable that they’d expect us to have moved all our cars before working hours, especially given the fact that they were doing the whole neighborhood.  Yet they kept sweeping, many times over.  It also might have made sense to wait until 9am, simply because then most cars would be gone, and they wouldn’t have had to go back down our single block to hit the spot left open by the one car that drove away since their last pass.  I inched my way into our neighbor’s parking pad, since they’re not home.  Of course, upon trying to leave, I found the back alley blocked at one end by an ambulance, so I had to back down the alley.  I think the forces that be were trying to tell me not to go to work today.  Yet somehow I managed.  I saw my kids, I did some therapy.  I did some assessment.  I pretended to speak some Spanish.  I helped a little boy make his “snake sound” in exchange for dizzying spins around the room.  I filed some notes.  I ate some lunch. 

And finally, I can put work away, where it belongs, and focus again on the show.  This is what we’ve been working towards.  These are the moments we performing whackos live for.  These are the weekends that make us sign up for the next show, forgetting Hell week, forgetting load-in, forgetting the wardrobe malfunctions, broken parasols, diva performers, and mutiny among the ranks.  This weekend contains the adrenaline rush. 

It’s show time!

As you may know, I’m going to be in a play this weekend, with Mr. Apron.  The joke I keep telling is that I got tired of being a theatre widow when he went off to do his plays (he’s been in at least six on stage, and directed at least one other  in the time we’ve been together).  As the rehearsals ran steadily later, I would fall asleep on the couch waiting for him.  I love to see him on stage.  Selfish me, I always derive such pleasure of watching him, that he must be performing solely for my benefit.  I’ve been involved with his shows in some part before, whether offering ideas, dramaturgy, or helping out with hair, make-up and costumes.  But I haven’t been on stage since 2001, when I was in Bernard Slade’s “Same Time, Next Year” as part of a peer’s student senior thesis in college.  She went all bisexual with the show, mixing genders in each scene; you know, stretching the bounds of on-stage relationships and such.  My father came up to me after the show, and, with a twinkle in his eye, told me he accepted my being a lesbian.  I thanked him, and told it was called acting.  My boyfriend at the time almost blew a gasket when I told him I’d be on stage in lingerie and there would be a kiss or two (straight and lesbian).  Again, it was called acting.  In his paranoia (and undiagnosed schizoid tendencies), he expressed the fear I’d “feel something” when I kissed either gender actor, and leave him because of the “spark” I’d shared on stage.  Uh huh. 

And now I’m back on stage, sharing a spark with my husband.  We put in 13 hours yesterday, between the loading at the warehouse, set construction, costume debacles, sitz probe (sounds evil, doesn’t it?) with the orchestra, and cue-to-cue run through.  We got home at nearly midnight, and I’m back at work, for an insanely scheduled week. 

I have a laundry list of things to work during the show, and things to buy for the show, neither of which I have time to practice or purchase.  Our nightgowns are transparent and no one has provided full-length slips.  Mr. Apron’s trousers fall down, and his costume, which is supposed to be military, looks like a marching band reject.  Our parasols (guaranteed not to break, so we bought no extras) are breaking.  And my skirt, which was ordered for me from the rental company, who had been given information that I am 5′0″ tall, was so long that I not only have to wear it at my bust, but they had to hem 2 more inches.  I’m swimming in fabric. 

Somehow or another, we’ll figure out our blocking and footwork, the costumes will be patched together, and the curtain wil rise on the debut of my return to the stage.  As we get closer and closer, I know I’ll be torn between the impending excitement of performing a great show for people I love (and strangers, too), and the exhaustion factor that led Mr. Apron to remark, as we drove home down deserted streets last night, “You’re never doing another show with me again, are you?”

It’s certainly been a learning experience for me — my first musical, my first time learning dance steps outside of aerobics class — and it hasn’t all been positive.  I’ve been so frustrated trying to match pitches and learn lyrics, not to mention exhausted on mornings after rehearsal.  But it has taught me about myself.  Even if I’ve never done a music before, I remember the excitement of getting my costume, of learning what hairstyles we’ll need, of walking the stage, of looking out at a dark theatre and imagining an attentive audience. 

And I can’t wait.

P.S.  Blogs may be less frequent this week!

Besides white elephants, my mother gives another type of gift.  Once she learns that someone is “into” something, whether it’s Stash brand Licorice Spice Tea, or rubber ducks, or The Three Stooges, or perfume, she doesn’t let go.  She engages in pursuit of products matching these themes, and lavishes them unceasingly on the unwitting recipients.  My cousin is now 38, and I have no doubt she still receives rubber duckies every October for her birthday, because she once happened to mention in passing she thought they were cute.  And it’s never just one tchotchke.  I was looking for a gift for my clinical supervisor at the end of the semester to thank her for her support and mentorship, and I made the mistake of asking for help.  Mom, upon learning this woman’s penchant for making to-do lists, and her first initial, sent me 5 monogrammed packets of post-it brand list pads. 

If you let it slip that you’re having a hard time finding something, she’ll set her sights on it, and you’ll receive, in due course, 6 boxes of red bush tea, 12 cans of Chef Boyardee pasta without meatballs, 8 packs of string bikini style underwear in size 5 (okay, my secret’s out), and untold amounts of men’s shirts in neck 15, sleeve 34/35 (and so’s Mr. Apron’s). 

Each time we visit my parents’ house, there are a gross of Canada Dry ginger ale waiting for us.  Never mind that we’ve defected to Caffeine Free Diet Coke.  And I don’t know how to call her off, how to submit a cease and desist order. 

For some people it must be a joy to receive these items.  Oh, they’re so hard to find.  Oh, she knows me so well.  Oh, I’ll never run out of my specific brand of deodorant or chocolate chips.  But for others, I think it must be embarrassing. 

Which is why I ended up only giving 2 of the monogrammed listing pads to my supervisor, and gave away the others to other people with the first initial of “B”.  I think it would be awkward for them. 

All this to arrive at today’s event, a family dinner, transpiring in 3 minutes (Mr. Apron, where are you?).  Mr. Apron’s big sister is having a birthday today, and I let slip to my mother that she was having trouble finding 5oz Dixie cups with Spongebob on them.  Her favorite motif in bathroom cups.  This week, in a large carton, arrived 2 boxes (total 180) of Spongebob cups, plus 4 packs of 10 each (40 total) Spongebob lunch bags, and a Spongebob bubble bath thingy.  I wrapped up the Dixie cups, and made an executive decision to save the rest for Hanukkah.  I just couldn’t present all the stuff tonight next to her other gifts…Mr. Apron’s family is not a pile-o’presents family.  They choose, instead, a few thoughtful gifts that don’t clutter the recipient’s house.  My family is–haven’t you guessed by now?– the inventor of the piles.  Much is “cute” gifts, tchotchkes, inexpensive things Mom collects all year long with the recipient in mind.  She LOVES having these missions, these quests for hard-to-find or special-interest gifts.  She loves giving. 

You’d just better make sure to send a thank-you note, or  you’ll suffer donations in your name to wildlife foundations instead.  No one, not even Mr. Apron’s family, wants that.  She will rarely kick you off the list entirely, but you’ll get spoken of in tense tones as the one who didn’t send a thank you note, or the one who sent only 1 note for all four gift giving occasions in the past year.  Oh, yes, there are tallies.  And terse words. 

Remember folks; send a thank-you note.  Yes: even for 5oz. Spongebob cups.

You are what people see when they walk past, drive past, and ride past.  You are the only thing that many people read on a given day, now that TV guide has been replaced by the On Demand screen, and people order food from picture menus by number.  I drive past myriad signs on the way to and from work — signs for hair-braiding, vacuum repairs, corner grocery stores, nail salons, child care facilities, Chinese restaurant holes-in-the-wall (that also sell steak sandwiches, seafood, and fried chicken), real estate offices, and private ambulance companies.  They all have thing in common — they are not immune from the pandemic profligacy of the apostrophe S for plural words:

• Michael’s Nail’s
• Little One’s of the Future
• EMT’s wanted
• STEAK’S, CHICKEN, FRIE’S
• Two Brother’s Market, selling soda’s, milk, candy, and cigarette’s
• Creative Corners hair braiding, specializing in weave’s, sew-in’s, and scalp treatment’s
• And a realtor, with a huge mural-style sign on the side of a row-home, selling “home’s”

You are the sign-printers.  True, you have no editors like the newspapers and magazines have.  True, you are operating out of your basement inhaling the sweet fumes of melting vinyl, and pounding grommet in by hand.  But you are role models for grammar.  No one reads newspapers anymore, no one regulates the garbage content of the internet (like my own blog), and schools aren’t teaching grammar anymore.  You have a job, when Haver Convience Store (actual spelling of a store I pass every day) calls you for a sign, to look up the fucking word, to make sure it’s spelled as best you can.  You have a responsibility to know how to make plural nouns.  I learned this in 3rd grade.  Now I shall review with you, in case you didn’t make it past 2nd:

To make a plural noun, add S.  If it ends in S or Z, or CH, add ES.  If it ends in Y, drop the Y and add IES, unless the letter before the Y is a vowel; then just add S.  Watch me pluralize:

nail –> nails

cigarette–> cigarettes

fry –> fries

Did you see an apostrophe anywhere?  Did you see a “hyphen,” as someone once called it, when instructing me how to spell her own child’s name?  NO! 

Now you try.  Lest I open some can’s of whoop-ass on your sign’s.