I'll tell you what, though, not every four year old ugly stepsister researched her role as thoroughly as I! The moment I heard my Dad with the socket wrench in the garage, I KNEW I'd found the necessary prop for my curtsy. (Only the devoted fans of that annual Sunday night airing will understand that reference.)
During college, one late night at our round kitchen table, Sarah and I were studying. I have no recollection of the topic--it certainly wasn't academic. It was more likely Camelot-like. The end of one particularly poignant sentence was the cue for music and one of us burst into a spontaneous life altering ballad. From that point on, we vowed to make our lives into musicals whenever possible. We called it Life is a Musical. When appropriate, with effortless thought, we were required to sing and dance to celebrate a moment or to solve the problem at hand.
Sarah was always, always more melodious. She could even rhyme on a dime. (Lame proof that I can still play?) Richard, my future husband played along and actually enjoyed it. His forte was instant iambic pentameter. One of his most memorable creations, used countless times over the years was,
(sung with a military two count)
"We......ellllllllllll, they laughed at Chris-to-pher Co----lum-buuuuus!
They laughed at David with a sling."
(Poetry police, don't go looking for the definition. It really isn't iambic pentameter, it just sounded, well, poetic.)
Whether genetic or by sheer force, my daughter understands and accepts the responsibility of living Life is a Musical. Maybe it's because I sang "Stay Awake" from Mary Poppins every night as I rocked her to sleep? Perhaps purchasing season tickets to Casa Manana's children's theater each year watered the seed? Maybe it was the collection of dresses, shoes, hats, and props from a business put aside after her birth?
When she was cast as Madame in the sixth grade production of Aristocats, song and dance ensued.
I bought reserved tickets in advance, even purchased some for Richard and his guests for both nights. I've never been to a production at Briarhill Middle School. The stage functions primarily as a back drop to the cafeteria. I, rather famously, assumed that the reserved section would be roped off and we would select our seats.
For opening night, I purchased four reserved tickets for myself--we needed five. Dangit! My back-up plan was for me to sit in general admission. My guests were Mom, Dad, Carol aka former actor/director, and Emma, Annie Beth's closest cousin. We arrived early to ensure an excellent view in the reserved section.
Scene: Briarhill Middle School.
Although a veteran teacher, the director has never done a large production at the beginning of the school year with 6th graders.
Outdoor temperature somewhere in the 90's.
It is two years past the jury trial divorce between Lori and Richard-former Life is a Musical partners. He still wears his wedding band. He rarely acknowledges her with eye contact or speech.
Lori is wearing shorts and a thin, starched bright pink linen belted blouse. She is feeling anxious about her ticket accounting error. Her stomach is aflutter for Madame (aka Annie Beth). Lori,prone to co-dependency, is keenly aware of the inevitable awkwardness with her ex-husband and her family.
The ticket volunteer is not at the table.
Richard is standing in the lobby beside the table.
Lori's family passes-- eyes averting Richard's presence.
Lori: feeling more anxious leads family to the front of the stage.
Lights--spotlight on all the reserved section--approximately 85 folding metal chairs.
The spot grows smaller to highlight one row of chairs--approximately 12.
The spot grows even smaller to highlight the name on 8 of the chairs--CLARK.
Cue orchestra. Orchestra members each play a note of their choice as loudly as possible and hold for 2 seconds---as if in slow motion.
I immediately went into triage mode. I'm only moderately to marginally skilled in this area. If you're bleeding or close to death, you probably won't die. But seek other help if you want to save a limb or be scar free. As for the row of Clark chairs, I knew that I needed to be the human equivalent to a concrete median. I decided that Carol would sit in the back.
With Richard still standing by the table,
Mom, Dad, Emma, and Lori sit in four adjoining chairs.
Lori texts Carol: "Could this getting any worse?"
As Lori is texting, Richard sits down in the chair directly next to her, leaving the other three available for his guests.
Cue orchestra. Repeat earlier segment. Hold for 3 seconds.
Lori texts Carol: "Sweating BULLETS!!"
Lori sees best friend. Stands and crosses stage right.
Carol texts back: "I know! I can see it running down your back!!"
Cue orchestra: first 20 measures of "Loathing" from Wicked. "what is this feeling? so sudden and new?....." etc.
I can sweat. Put me on an antidepressant and ratchet up anxiety and you get the equivalent of turning on a hose. I'm prone to hyperbole, I'll admit it. However, imagine several small hoses attached to my forehead, the base of my neck, and my lower back. Now adjust these to a low setting just slightly beyond constant dripping and you'll get a very accurate picture of what I looked like in the following seconds, minutes, yes, hour of my life.
House lights dim.
Cue orchestra tuning.
The Aristocats begins.
I never could control the sweating--even with deep breathing and the thrill of seeing my only daughter's debut performance. I was grateful that the program doubled as a decent fan. I was ever so grateful that I chose a top with absorbent fabric and a belt that collected what would have most likely ended up as a puddle on the floor. I was comforted that at my right hand and behind me were people who love me to the very core. I am blessed beyond measure with a best friend who volunteered herself to arrange seating for the final performance.
I omitted the rhyming portion of Richard's original lyric earlier intentionally. It's particularly painful in this silly game made up one night in college.
We......ellllllllllll, they laughed at Chris-to-pher Co----lum-buuuuus!
They laughed at David with a sling.
They will laugh at ussssss
They may just cusssssssss
But we'll show them our wed--ding ring!
Not all musicals have happy endings. Stories resonant, though. Music transcends language. So much of life is tear-stained and redolent with the odors of yesterday's dinner. Tongues can assault or withhold much needed affirmations. Laughter is a powerful cleansing agent. We get to grow up and choose. I might want to pretend as a cathartic experiment; but, I don't want to be Cinderella anymore. I want to live my story well.
With music.
And dancing.
Aside from a great two line post on Facebook and the story telling ops for future dinner parties, was there value in that experience? When writing the score, I'd use every instrument available to orchestrate the final scene.
Scene: Lori's living room.
Time 11:49 PM moments before Annie Beth's 12th birthday
Annie Beth's birthday guests/fellow cast members are all gone. Annie Beth is gazing at the Aristocats program.
Lori is gathering up Annie Beth's belongings and loading the car.
Lori is returning Annie Beth to Richard for his scheduled weekend time.
Annie Beth: "Mom. Can I tell you something?"
Lori (pausing mid stride) : "Sure"
Cue violins.
Annie Beth: "I know it was probably a mistake or somthin'....but I'm really glad you and Daddy sat next to each other on opening night. It made me happy to see y'all watching me together."
And scene.
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PS. I'm grateful that I can afford to retire certain, barely worn garments. I'm also grateful Annie Beth doesn't read my blog.
