Woulda Coulda Shoulda

If the writing thing ever completely dries up, I’ve decided I’m going to sell drugs. It seems like a reasonable course of action, given that a lot of people probably already think that’s what I do.

Hang on; let’s back up.

Back about a year and a half or two years ago, Chickadee’s middle school band teacher made certain to tell me at a teacher conference or a concert (you can see this is really burned in my memory with utter clarity…) that “it’s time for a new flute.” I especially love this sort of thing because it’s not like “buy a new spiral notebook” but “hello, I barely know you, but please drop $1000+ on a new instrument because your snowflake should have one.” In fairness, Chickie had been progressing by leaps and bounds, and at a certain point you just can’t get any better on a starter instrument. The band director’s heart was in the right place. But Chickie overheard this and decided she NEEEEEEDED a new flute, yes please, now please, thank you.

Also this was right after we’d paid a lot of money to get her existing flute fixed. Because of course it was. (Insert martyred sigh here.) Her dad and Otto and I talked it over, and we decided that if she really wanted a better flute, we would pool our resources and get her one for Christmas that year. (more…)

So we opened The Vagina Monologues last night, after months of rehearsing and planning and some fretting. If you’ve ever been in a community show, you know there’s this nerve-wracking phenomenon where someone always struggles with their lines to the point where you’re thinking CRAP, this is going to be a DISASTER! And then at the final dress rehearsal everyone just pulls it out and you go PHEW, okay, I think it’s going to be fine. (I wonder if that happens in professional productions, too? Probably not.)

Anyway, it was all very exciting. Otto drove in with me to see the show (“Because it’s Valentine’s Day! What else am I going to do?”), and when we got the door an hour before curtain, he kissed me and headed off to kill some time. I walked into the lobby and found a volunteer from the organization backing the show. We’d met before, but she didn’t seem to remember me, so I introduced myself again, and she said, “Oh, Mir! I didn’t recognize you all dressed up!” In fact I was NOT all dressed up, but I did have a metric ton of spackle on my face and my hair was straightened, so I resisted blurting out, “DO I NORMALLY LOOK AWFUL? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING??” (Hi, I’m Mir. I’m 5.)

We chatted for a minute and then I went to head backstage, but this lovely young woman stopped me. “Do you want to grab a program?” (more…)