Little Things

I hate to brag (no, really), but I truly am one of the luckiest people alive. One of the reasons I feel so fortunate is that it's fairly easy for me to realize why I am lucky, even when things are at their worst (such as when I lose my full time job).

Most of the time, I can feel grateful for having Domestic Partner in my life. There are times, though, when I feel like he is always in the way when we're both at home, especially in the kitchen. And I don't even cook and clean that much. Is this how married people feel? How can only two people get in each other's way so often in a three-bedroom house?

He's always right there, too, when I want to brush my teeth at night. It's as if there's a magnetic tracking device in him, even when he's in the middle of watching TV. I've tried different times before bed. It doesn't matter what time it is or how silently I try to start brushing my teeth in our not-so-spacious bathroom. Whether it's before 9:00 pm or after, there he is, my pre-bedtime shadow, cutting in front of me to take out his contacts and start brushing his own teeth.

My life is a constant trial.

I've learned to put my frustration aside and just wait the paltry two or three minutes before I resume brushing my own molars.

Loud sneezes - he sneezes at a high volume, directly towards my eardrums it seems, when we're sitting next to each other on the couch or in the car. I've told him that it is possible to sneeze without employing your vocal cords. But I've since become resigned to the fact that I'll probably have to live with the unexpected explosions for the rest of our lives.

It's little enough. At least he covers his mouth.

Apple stickers. Those little decals that are stuck to every individual piece of produce from the supermarket. Those are always in the sink's drain catcher whenever Domestic Partner washes an apple, even though it's just as easy to stick it to the plastic bag lining the trash can under the sink.

Bright green loogie flecks stuck inside the toilet bowl when he uses the Crest mouth rinse. It's better than having them stuck inside the bathroom sink. But still: the toilet has to be flushed right after spitting so that the green loogie flecks don't get attached.

BE REASONABLE. DO IT MY WAY.

I'm sure there are several things I do every day that annoy him, too, things I'm not aware of. We tend to hold things in, Domestic Partner more so than me, even though we know it's not a good habit for couples - letting resentment build up.

But we rarely fight. We have a peaceful home atmosphere, which I usually remember not to take for granted. It's not worth expressing my petty irritation over the little things. I don't even to need to give much thought to picking our battles.

And so, I feel lucky.

Bitchy Boy

Jalen (not his real name) was so bitchy. I met him in rehearsals for one of the shows I did this past year. Sometimes, he complained about the rehearsal process. And he was critical of everything in the entertainment industry. But he adored Britney, so we bonded over that.

Actors and performers who were not la Spears, though, were subject to his immediate criticism and disdain, whether on stage or in the media. He had an opinion, usually low, about anyone's and everyone's performance.

Jalen, himself, was a marvelous performer and rather awkward looking. He was a good "character type." You just knew that adolescence must have been absolute hell for him. It was easy for me to forgive him for his bitchy attitude, once I surmised that it must be a defense technique, built up over the handful of years of his young adulthood.

We shared a brief, memorable moment. On opening night, Jalen and I answered our call to places, squatting behind a set piece before revealing ourselves in the first number. In the dark, just before the curtain and the lights went up, I whispered to him: "Magic!" Jalen responded with a friendly, brotherly squeeze to my shoulder.

Before rehearsal one afternoon, I saw that I was right behind Jalen's car when we had both exited the freeway. His car was closest to the homeless person holding up a cardboard sign. I saw Jalen's hand reach out of his car window, a folded bill in his hand.

I never told Jalen that I had witnessed his act of kindness. But I am inspired by him to continue giving what I can, when I can.

Bitchy Boy has a soft spot.

I Still Want to be Donny Osmond

I go back and forth, between feeling I should be more age appropriate in my performing desires (blah, boring) and saying to hell with it, age be damned. I lean toward the latter (for now), constantly inspired as I am by other people's performances.

Favorite Aunt Pat bought tickets to Donny & Marie's Christmas show at the Pantages. It was her early Christmas present to me. I had been reading good things about the show on facebook, but neither of us expected to enjoy the show as much as we did.

The show was a good mix of traditional Christmas songs, pop tunes, and the Osmonds' well-known hits from forty years ago. All age groups were in the audience, so it was a great show for those of us old enough to remember when they were "a little bit country, and a little bit rock and roll" on their Friday night variety show.

There were no Ice Angels skating on the stage . . . But I didn't know that they would have a chorus of dancers! Four young women and four young men added a lot of fun energy to the numbers. It was like watching a topnotch revue on board a cruise ship.

Marie jokingly inserted references to Nutrisystem, and Donny kept lording over her the fact that he had won his round of Dancing With the Stars. Donny is 55, now, and I watched closely as he kept up with the other male dancers less than half his age. The guy rocks like the white boy that he is, in the hip hop numbers, but the point is that he still rocks!

And they look good, both of them, on top of being as vocally strong as ever. I don't have five decades of lifetime performing to fall back on, the way that the Osmond siblings do. But I am inspired! If they can still kick it on stage, then I still have a few years left to continue auditioning for local shows.

I can't wait!

Next Chapter, Please

Well, there went six years of my life.

I was fired from my job last week, from the film school in LA.

I am okay, grateful, even, which was a little surprising.

I am fine, mostly because I am covered, financially, even emotionally.

It was not completely unexpected. I had been spoken to, earlier in the year, about the option of leaving on my own, voluntarily. Instead, I asked for a probation period to attempt, once again, to improve my performance, to increase my numbers.

Didn't work.

I am only mildly devastated, if at all (Am I in shock? Will I feel it later, like a paper cut?). It was a good job, a great job, even, at times. But I didn't love it. I enjoyed the customer service aspect of it, but not the sales part. I didn't want to take advantage of anyone.

I didn't hate my job, but I wasn't thriving in it. Mostly, I just focused on being grateful to be employed at all in our recent economy.

But no more commuting in freeway traffic, at least for now. No more forty-five hour work weeks, and no more Saturday open house shifts once a month.

It was my first real job after years of waiting tables between far-too-few performing jobs in theme parks and on cruise ships. So, for that I will always be grateful, my first real world work experience.

For now, I will focus on cleaning the clutter out of my house. I will be the anti-hoarder (except for the Furbies, of course). I will inquire about volunteer opportunities while I search online and apply for job positions. I will practice my musical theater songs for upcoming auditions.

And I will write. Now I have no excuse not to start blogging regularly again. I will make an honest effort to complete the rough draft of my young adult novel, Scooter Boy. I may even put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard, to jot down a first draft of the drag queen revue that's been bubbling around my mind for the last few years.

I will meditate on where I want to be six years from now, and let that help me make my decisions over the next few weeks.

I will remain optimistic, even though I know I may not be able to keep feeling so every single day.

Phoenix rising, again.

Mickey on the Radar

Paul was short, short enough to fulfill the five foot tall and under requirement for the costume. He wasn’t a dancer, but he must have attended the same dance audition that I did for the Electrical Parade at Disneyland.

Paul was cast as Mickey Mouse in that parade.

I didn’t know Paul that well, even though we had both graduated from Norco High about a year before we were first hired at Disneyland. I knew who Paul was. I think he was albino, his pale skin and white-blond hair making him distinctive, in addition to his height. I think his eyes were sensitive to bright light. He wore sunglasses in his senior portrait for the school’s yearbook.

Paul had helped out with the football team, I’m not sure quite how, I’m ashamed to say. I never paid much attention to the football games, even when I was playing in the stands or for the half time shows with the marching band. I think he may have helped with game statistics or something.

It was among the football team that Paul was called by his nickname, “Radar.” I read an interview with Paul, I think in the school paper, where he was quoted as identifying with the character of the same name on the T.V. series “M.A.S.H.”

A year after graduating from high school, Paul and I sometimes carpooled to the Magic Kingdom together. I still didn’t get to know him very well. He was nice and polite, but quiet. Once inside Mickey Mouse though, he had the proper enthusiastic energy while atop the big, round float lit up like a Christmas tree, bouncing in tempo to the light and peppy electronic parade music (“Baroque Hoedown,” it was called).

I was probably too closed off to Paul. At nineteen, I was dealing with coming out of the closet that summer, trying to find a compromise between my sexuality and my Christian upbringing. I wasn’t comfortable talking to Paul about what I was going through.

In recent years, I had heard that Paul already passed away, I don’t know how or from what. I was sad to hear it.

In the almost three decades since that first summer at Disney, my strongest memory of Paul was on the last night of the Electrical Parade. Backstage, before that last parade of the summer season, Paul sat with his Mickey head cradled in his lap. He held the pale rubber face and black fur-covered ears as one would hold a beloved pet, rocking back & forth.

Paul was saying goodbye to Mickey. It was too much like someone saying goodbye before having to put a family pet down, so bittersweet.

Being Mickey Mouse may have been the best thing to happen to my classmate who was born five feet tall. Paul had the energy and the experience to audition into the park’s Character department, as I did after the summer parade ended. But perhaps the daytime shifts were not an option for his sensitive eyes, even though his head would have been covered, his eyes shaded by dark, cartoon lenses.

Wherever Paul is now, I hope he’s still bouncing to the beat, as happy and as energetic as his former alter ego, free from any limitations.

Swan Song of the Scooter

I survived my last scooter crash last week, on Wednesday, September 12th, 2012. As much as I hate to have to admit it, that may have been my last scooter ride ever, at least, on the freeway.

I am comfortable splitting lanes, going in between lanes of cars on the freeway, passing everyone and beating traffic. It's legal, here, in California. But my scooter is small, freeway-legal though it may be. I know I'm practically invisible to other motorists.

The guy driving the huge pick-up truck saw me. He was in the carpool lane and he inched over to his left. I felt safe enough to pass him on his right as I accelerated. The vehicle in front of him did not see me. The woman driving that vehicle was crossing the double yellow line to jump out of the carpool lane into the lane on our right. I was too close to her. I couldn't brake and/or swerve in time to avoid colliding with her.

My candy-orange scooter bounced off of her car, and then hit the bumper of a second car in front of hers. I was aware of flying off of my bike, clearing the windshield (thank goodness!), and doing what felt like a rather spectacular single flip before hitting the pavement. The driver of the second car that I had hit stopped in front of me and got out. He asked if I was okay and told me to sit up. He was wearing a sheriff's uniform and he was speaking into his phone.

In less than five minutes I was surrounded by other police cars and fire department vehicles. I couldn't help noticing that I was also surrounded by several young and attractive officers and fire fighters. Using shears, they sliced through my work slacks and dress shirt sleeves to see if any other external injuries could be located. I was glad I had chosen an outfit that I didn't care about losing.

Before the other vehicles arrived I could feel the sprain in my right ankle. I rotated it gently. There wasn't much pain but it was already swollen. I removed my helmet and propped my right foot up on it. Sitting there on the 10 freeway, cars going around our collision site (some of them honking, even), I was thinking to myself that I was going to have to get my ankle checked out at the hospital. I could still probably make it to my friend's play that night, "Prelude to a Kiss," I thought, even though I might have to miss work that day. I could still be back on stage the next night for "Miss Saigon," I had thought, even though I would probably have to stay out of the dance numbers.

X-rays at the first hospital confirmed both a dislocation and a fracture. The need for surgery was also confirmed. I heard the words 'fibula' and 'femur.' I wasn't going to be able to finish the remaining three weeks of "Miss Saigon" performances. I wasn't even going to be able to go to work for a while. I was acutely aware of how lucky I was to come away alive and in one piece, that nothing else was seriously injured besides my ankle, other than a few bruises and scrapes.

I felt both humbled and extremely fortunate.

I was later transferred to a second hospital, one a mile away from my home, which made me much happier. After a comfortable night, surgery was performed the next day.

I'm on crutches now, but even luckier - I haven't been taking the painkillers at all. I haven't even filled the prescription, which includes a narcotic, so I am not anxious to take it. The pain is minimal. I've only been taking Tylenol once a day.

I am anxious to get back to work, to get back to my regular routine and regular pay. But I may have to wait a couple of weeks or more. I have been instructed to rest and keep the foot elevated so that the bones can heal properly, along with a couple of pins or screws that have been placed inside.

I could be sad about not dancing for the rest of the show this month. But I am optimistic about auditioning for shows next year, the year that I will be turning forty-seven. Anxious as I am to get into my car and drive to work using only my left foot, my biggest motivator to stay put is the possibility of dancing again in 2013.

I will miss my scooter-riding days. I'm not sure if that was my last scooter ride ever, but it was the last time I'll commute to work on the freeway on one. I have been pushing my luck for too long, and drivers in L.A. are crazy. Riding a scooter and passing other cars has shown me a number of people texting while sitting in traffic.

I'll miss you, scooter. Thanks for the feel-good days of driving in sunshine and good weather. Thanks for the feeling of freedom I had felt while driving at safe and leisurely speed rates. Thanks for the adrenaline and euphoria during the faster speed rates. Thanks for the me time and all of the songs I had playing in my head while I rode. Thanks for quiet time and meditation I accomplished while riding.

I'll miss you. But I am very thankful to be alive, to have the chance to start over and rebuild from only a fractured ankle.

The photo above is courtesy of the BFF Kathy files.

The Crying Show

Drained, emotionally drained.

I already knew going in, before rehearsals started, that I would be crying quite a bit while learning the music and blocking for Miss Saigon. Even just in first vocal rehearsals, sitting around a piano with the cast, I had to bow my head to weep as quietly as possible while Nicole, our "Kim," sang the moving solo, "I'd Give My Life for You," a heart wrenching song of love and devotion sung to the character's small son, "Tam."

I was glad I was sitting in the back row.

Tam is played by Kyle, a six-year-old actor. He looks like and reminds me of my nephew, who is the same age. Kyle also looks the way my college-age nephew, Shane, did so many years ago, when Shane had auditioned for the very same role.

It's difficult for me to handle when Nicole/Kim is singing to Kyle/Tam in rehearsals. I see my own mother's face as I watch Nicole sing about parental devotion and sacrifice to Kyle, who is a tangible and corporeal representation of my inner child and vulnerability.

And I am absolutely loving the entire rehearsal process. I am trying to be consciously aware of how much I appreciate the opportunity to be part of this amazing and special project. Many of the cast members, from as young as 17-years-old to almost-my-age, have done the show before. A few of them were in the national tour. The directing and creative team sincerely care about and respect the story of the show and the way it's told.

It is not a "happy show," but it is a joy and a privilege to be part of this cast that is synchronized in unspoken understanding and a willing, mutual effort. Everyone demonstrates a high level of professionalism in that they all know how to show up, and shut up, and focus on the task at hand.

I told a coworker that one of the reasons I'm enjoying the rehearsal process so much is because this is one of the first times in my life that I feel as though I'm in the middle of a storybook, bringing it to life.

But oh, how we cry. During a climatic scene in the second act, when the iconic helicopter swoops in from above, we are screaming at an uppermost level of desperation as Vietnamese villagers, pleading with American G.I. soldiers to let us in past the border gates and fences, begging them to save and rescue us. Every cast member has been so genuine in their individual performances that we all seem to feed off of and support each other. The only way I know how to pull off the level of desperation needed for that scene is to think of my late pug, Caesar, as I scream to be united with my son. With the heartbreaking cries and pleas of the other cast members, the desperate tears flow easily.

I am exhausted. And I am at my happiest, my most content, from the fulfillment of doing what I love best and from the satisfaction of getting to be part of such a high quality production. It has been worth the lack of sleep. It hasn't been too bad during the daytime, sleepy at my job's desk, and yet, feeling peaceful and grateful while I anticipate the evening's pending rehearsal.

I have been listening to the music from this show for two decades, now. I should have made more effort to get into a production of it much earlier in my life, even for the national tour. But I have lived a lot of my life in the "better late than never" mode. Now, as an older performer, the young women of the cast affectionately call me "Auntie," partially because of the "mama-san" character I play in the opening bar scene. It is an endearing moniker that warms my overly-emotional heart, reassuring me of the bond we have already formed in our little theater family.

Yes, better late than never.

For information about tickets and show times, please visit Candlelight Pavilion's web site.

(The photo above is from the rehearsal of of yet another emotionally-charged scene where soldiers intimidate and abuse the main character, Kim)