Send it up

Every actor's worst nightmare, second to being naked on stage (except if dreaming of roles in Hair, The Full Monty or Equus): forgetting lines.

I'm in Barksdale Theatre's production of Smoke on the Mountain Homecoming now running at Hanover Tavern. We opened last Friday.

I forgot my lines on opening night. 

NIGHTMARE!

Mid-monologue (which I had nailed in dress rehearsal), I got a nice laugh after a line. And then, my brain froze. Nothing. Silence. Pins and needles in my throat, all the way down to my stomach. Fumbling. Sweating. Blinding lights. Slow motion. An out-of-body experience. "This isn't happening. Yes, it is. Oh #%$@! Line, line, line, line.... Help! I need help! $#@%!"

An eternity.

(About four seconds.)

I skipped ahead and got back on track, finished the monologue and got some more laughs.

I was devastated. I cried at intermission.

I was certain Bruce (the director) and others would comment on it at the post-show reception. A couple of my castmates said, "don't say anything, no one will even remember" and reassured me it wasn't as bad as I felt it was. So once the celebratory opening night party commenced with the cast, crew, my coworkers, friends, critics and other theatre-goers, I downplayed it pretty well. Kind of. Ok, not really.

I felt like I had to own up to it, because I did forget. I worried that I brought the show down with my four seconds of silence and deer-in-headlights staring. I cringed at the thought of my stammering ending up in a review and casting a bad light on everyone else.

But then another cast member reminded me of three words:

SEND IT UP. 

Let it go. Don't worry about it. It's over, in the past, the rest of the show went (relatively) well so forget it, get over yourself and move on. Hallelujah for those three little words.

Now that I have had two successful recollections of my lines after the catastrophe, read a very positive review of the show (John Porter for WCVE-FM), and confessed this boo-boo to my vast blog readership (ha), I feel much better about it.

Amusingly, in theatre jargon, the phrase that actors use when they forget lines is, "I went up on my lines."

So, I went up. And now, I have sent it up.

And I'm looking forward to a very successful rest-of-the-run.

A crime of crab legs

Only a couple times in my life have I been a victim of theft. The first time was over ten years ago when my car was stolen from in front of my friend's apartment building in a quiet, residential neighborhood in St. Paul, MN.

The second time was on Tuesday of this week, my 5th Anniversary working at Theatre IV.

♪ Happy Anniversary to me! ♫

Theatre IV hired our usual contractor to install new windows in our administrative offices. The contractor had done other jobs for Theatre IV and was friendly, efficient and did good work. Long story short, one of the contractor's employees had a window of opportunity (forgive the pun) to steal my Wachovia check card out of my messenger bag in my office while I was working in an office down the hall as my new window was being installed. After he left for the day, he went on a mini-spending spree with my card, first stopping at a BP station for gas and other items and then on to Kroger, where he attempted to buy over $200 worth of crab legs.

Not a cart-full of groceries to feed his wife and children.

CRAB LEGS.

This is what was revealed by the surveillance video at Kroger.

I have spent several hours over the last few days talking to the police and Wachovia in order to provide as much information as possible about the theft. An investigator has now been assigned to the case and as of this morning, was in the process of obtaining an arrest warrant. I imagine in the coming weeks there will be affidavits and court appearances involved.

Everyone has been asking how I'm doing -- I'm just fine. But I can't help but think about the guy who stole my card, and more importantly, his family. I feel bad for his wife and kids. It would have been one thing if he had, out of desperation, tried to buy groceries or clothes or some other necessities for his family. But a case of crab legs? That doesn't elicit much sympathy from me. What on earth was he thinking?! Clearly, he wasn't thinking. He will likely go to jail for a time, leaving his family to fend for themselves.

According to the contractor, this guy is (was) an upstanding member of society, "a good Christian man with a lovely wife and seven kids." But as we all know, even the preacher is capable of stealing coins from the offering plate.

Or in this instance, crab legs.

2010 Progress

I like the way Brits say the word "progress." Not PRAH-gress, but PRO-gress. It adds a certain weight and air of authority when pronounced that way. In fact, I generally like the way they pronounce everything (except, perhaps, "aluminum" and "schedule"). Thus, I invite you to read the rest of this post in a British accent.  

[NOTE: I watched an episode of Red Dwarf earlier this evening, which may or may not have had something to do with this particular whim.]

Admittedly, as far back as I can remember, every January I have made resolutions for the New Year. Then a few months into the year, I lapse by doing one or both of the following:

1) Forgetting what they are; or
2) Ignoring them altogether.

I think this is because year after year, I resolved to accomplish things that were either cliché or absurd. In short, I was a complete and total git about it.

For example, "lose weight" has been on the list every year since I was 14. I think two of the years since then I actually did lose weight, but not because of my commitment to my New Year's goals. It was just a handy coincidence.

That particular goal did not make the 2010 list.

This January, I once again made some resolutions. However this time, I actually put quite a lot of thought into the five goals I conceived for myself. A few were a bit challenging and a couple were not. The difference this year is that I wrote them down and have referred back to them on several occasions over the past six months.

Now that 2010 is half over (*GASP!*), it's time to assess PROgress.

I must admit that I am quite pleased with myself. To date, I can check two things off the list. A third involves a test of will against a particular culinary temptation, which I won't be able to check off until midnight on 1 January 2011. But so far, I haven't given in. The other two are relatively attainable and I am confident I can "git 'er done," as the Americans say at wrestling matches and the like.

What a splendid feeling this is! How refreshing! I did not set myself up for failure, nor did I get namby-pamby with my goals.

Now, as I proGRESS toward the remainder of my goals, I can do so with the satisfaction that I have already exceeded any and all accomplishments I have set for myself in prior years.

And that, dear friends, is PROgress.

That'll learn me

It seems I have received my comeuppance. See, in my last blog post, I commented on how Robb & I would have to get our fill of nature during our weekend at Philpott Lake because we'd be spending the following weekend at Shenandoah National Park with three little kids who were sure to scare away any and all signs of wildlife with their rowdiness.

HA!

Reality couldn't have been any more blatantly ironic. After winding through random rural roads, over the river and through the woods, Robb & I finally arrived at the Salthouse Branch campground at Philpott Lake (near Fairy Stone State Park). It was indeed beautiful; the campsites were arranged on terraced loops overlooking the lake and the woods were thick and green.

And then, there were the rebel flags. And rebel yells.

Ah yes, it seems that Philpott Lake is a haven for redneck weekenders. (And I'm only using this term because the people there proudly proclaimed themselves as such.) Noisy trucks, mullets, grubby chubby children, confederate flags, cigarettes, beer bottles, hootin' & hollerin' filled our weekend. The only thing missing were gunshots.

Robb and I were lulled to sleep our first night by the sound of our neighbors --
a father and son spending some quality time together for Father's Day weekend. This invovled drinking, cussing, guffawing, and then wretching until 2 a.m. What better way to say, "I love you," then to holler "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!" at your dear ol' dad as he is bent over puking his guts out.

I won't elaborate on the rest of our weekend there, but suffice it to say everything was beautiful, except the people. We saw no deer, no birds, no wild animals at all, except for squirrels chasing each other through the treetops and vultures circling overhead. Appropriate.

Our next weekend at Loft Mountain, however, couldn't have been more pleasant. The boys were eager to help and learn and the baby was a happy camper (sorry, couldn't resist). Deer, rabbits, birds and butterflies were plentiful, as were the black raspberries. The weather was warm but comfortable and our mostly-secluded campsites backed up to the woods.

We went on a nature discovery hike with Ranger Georgette (with whom Caleb, the future biologist, instantly bonded) and Nathan was busy helping build campfires and naming boulders (here he is at right, standing on "Kid Mountain"). Eleanor toddled and giggled and picked raspberries. At the risk of speaking for Bill and Jennifer, I think they had a pretty good time themselves. Robbie & I definitely did.

All this to say, touché! Lesson learned! 

The Pattersons at Loft Mountain

The call of the wild

I can't believe I haven't been camping yet in 2010! And June is half over! SHAME!

Oh well, we're remedying that right quick by answering the persistent call of the great Virginia outdoors with two weekends in a row of camping.

This weekend Robb & I are journeying 200 miles west to Salthouse Branch campgrounds at Philpott Lake, which is near Fairy Stone State Park (here's a map). Weather is gonna be steamy but I reserved a campsite that was labeled "full shade" so me & my hot feet should be ok. I've never been to this particular campground and I'm pretty sure Robbie hasn't either. I couldn't really find any photos online of the campgrounds but there are plenty of pics of Philpott Lake and it looks gorgeous. That is one of the things I miss the most about Minnesota... the beautiful lakes that are so plentiful you can't take a step sideways without sticking your toe in one. I'll get my little fix of home this weekend... especially if they rent canoes!
 

Next weekend, we are making camping a family affair. Robb's sister, brother-in-law, niece and two nephews, dog (?) -- oh, and Robb & I -- are going to Loft Mountain campground at Shenandoah National Park. This is familiar stomping ground for us and we're all looking forward to it.

However, in the last year or so (or, perhaps more accurately, since the economic downturn really started hitting home for those who were accustomed to traveling), it has been difficult to reserve a site without doing so literally months in advance. Each time we camped at any of the grounds in Shenandoah last summer, they were always at capacity. So, for example, if you happened to load up the minivan last-minute and drive your wife and kids two hours past Charlottesville with the hope of getting a walk-up tent site at Loft Mountain upon your arrival, you'd likely be welcomed with a big fat "CAMPGROUND FULL" sign at the gate.

Also, for those of us who did make a reservation and were hoping for a nice, peaceful, relaxing weekend filled with the sights and sounds of nature... well, we were in for a "call of the wild" all right. Because all those families who decided to postpone the trip to Europe or Disneyworld in lieu of an economical family jaunt to Shenandoah descended upon the park en masse and raised enough ruckus to send even the most domesticated deer or squirrel high-tailing it out of there for some solitude.

Next weekend, Robb & I will likely be part of the latter group, so recognizing this, we are going to make the most of this weekend at Philpott Lake. We'll get our flora and fauna fix so that we can get loud and rowdy with the kiddos in the great outdoors the following weekend. Who knows... maybe after all that exploring and adventuring, we might be tuckered enough for some quiet time and get to hear some wild calls after all........

A dog's life

This morning I started working on the drawing of the two Sheltie dogs for the woman who won a graphite portrait that I donated in last year's Fairy Tale Ball silent auction. The pups are adorable, as you can see. (Lilly & Gracie at right)

As I was sketching, I couldn't help but think about the dogs I've had the pleasure of knowing in my life. I decided to write this particular dog chronology post mostly for myself, but if you're reading, I hope it might cause you to pause and think about the special canines in your life and how much they meant/mean to you.

My family got the first dog of my life when I was 3. He was a Norwegian Elkhound mix named Ole. He was a very good dog and had the standard Elkhound curly tail. He had special barks for people he knew, which was very handy because we knew who was pulling into the driveway without ever having to see the vehicle. (This isn't Ole but is a close likeness.)

When Ole was approaching old man years, we got a Border Collie puppy, who we named Bandit. Ole was insanely jealous, but after awhile he grew to tolerate the energetic and annoying little playmate. After Ole passed away, Bandit became very protective of the family and didn't take well to strangers. He nipped at the UPS man more than once and bit one of the neighbor kids (who was provoking him, but that's another story). But to us, he was our faithful best buddy. He would attempt to herd the chickens and livestock and unfortunately, cars. He got fatally hit when the guy driving the power company truck came barreling down our driveway to take the monthly meter reading. I was in college when it happened and I'm so glad I wasn't there. I couldn't bear to see my poor Bandit lying limp on the driveway, alive but paralyzed. My folks had to put him down. (Again, not Bandit but he looked like this, with the brown eyebrows and cheeks, except he had one pointed ear and one that flopped over. So cute.) 

Over the years we had several stray dogs drift on and off the farm. There was Sparky, a cute little blond mix with long fur and boundless energy. There was good-natured Ol' Duff, the black lab with a white muzzle, who despite his age and arthritis still remembered hunting commands and would take off after rabbits and squirrels only when given the appropriate cue.

Then along came Jake, 1/2 Collie 1/2 German Shepherd. My parents found him in an online ad ten years ago. He was about 3 years old at the time and belonged to a woman in the Twin Cities who was getting married and planned to travel with her husband, and therefore couldn't keep him. She wanted to give him to a family who had room for him to run. I was living in St. Paul and my parents drove out for the dual purpose of visiting me and adopting Jake.

He was a handful. He loved life on the farm. But my parents quickly learned that he, like Bandit, loved to herd... cars. My folks were really at a loss as to what to do. They felt it was inhumane to keep him tied up, particularly after his previous owner's wish for him to be allowed to run. They tried discipline and rewards to keep him from chasing cars in the driveway. He was stubborn and regardless of rewards or punishment, he could never resist the chase. He got himself into major trouble one day, when he ran all the way to the road and under the wheels of a tractor trailer.

Miraculously, he survived. My mom found him in the ditch and immediately ran to him. He was too big for her to carry so she sat praying, holding his poor broken body until dad came home and they were able to bring him to the emergency vet. He had two broken front legs, ligament and tendon damage, cracked ribs and other injuries I'm sure I'm forgetting. After all that damage, his legs healed but not fully. He semi-regained his ability to walk, but hasn't been able to run since the accident. That may have been God's blessing in disguise. He has lived a long life on the farm, barking dutifully when cars pull into the driveway but not running after (or under) them. Jake is now in his teens and has a full white muzzle. He is missing some teeth and has gotten kind of crotchety in his old age, but despite that he is still a good boy and a good friend. He will still "speak" for a treat and will roll over onto his back for a belly scratch.

A couple years ago, my folks adopted a neglected elderly Golden Retriever named Anna from a rescue organization in northern Minnesota. She is such a happy old girl now and keeps Jake company. She is so good-natured and loves attention. As mom says, "she sashays around the farm like she owns the place." I'm so glad she is able to spend the latter part of her life feeling happy and loved.

I have only been a dog owner once. Not long after my ex-husband and I moved to Virginia, I fell into a pretty bad depression. We had moved here for his job with the General Assembly, however I had no job lined up, knew no one here, and was desperately homesick. I spent my days looking for jobs online and feeling more and more isolated and lonely, not to mention pressured to get a job.

Admittedly, as the job search seemed to be proving fruitless, I spent some time on petfinder.com looking for a potential furry friend to keep me company (unbeknownst to my ex). One day I came across a homely little 8-month old pup with a mug only a mother could love. That night, I showed the picture to my then-husband and to my surprise, it didn't take much cajoling to get him to agree to drive up to Baltimore to meet her.

When we did, it was instant love. We knew Lucille was ours. Her foster mom drove her down to our apartment a couple weeks later. The first few months were very trying. Lucy had boundless energy and did not like sleeping in a crate. She barked when we left, she barked when we got home, she barked when she was excited, which was most of the time. Thankfully our neighbor across the hall was hard of hearing and our downstairs neighbor was never home, otherwise I'm certain we would have been evicted.

But despite her crazy nature, we loved her. It wasn't until after we had adopted her that we learned she was a "Puggle" -- a so-called designer hybrid between a Pug and a Beagle that were all the rage. Apparently her first owner paid $700 for her. We had no idea what a bargain we'd gotten!

Unfortunately when my marriage ended and I moved out, I wasn't able to take Lucy with me. I had "visitation" but that meant in order to see Lucy, I had to see my ex. I tried it for awhile but the contention and the stress and the torture of having to leave her each time were too much. Not to mention the confusion and anxiety Lucy must have felt every time I left her. I decided it would be best to just say goodbye and let her live her life without me.

It was soooooo hard. It is still hard. I miss her a lot. I think about her goofy antics and the way she would run circles around the other dogs at the dog park. I taught her a bunch of tricks that I wonder if she can still do. I miss how her paws would smell like an old vacuum cleaner bag. I miss how she would sigh contentedly and curl up in a little ball beside me on the couch. I miss singing "Tiny Dancer" to her in a silly voice. I miss my friend.

I hope that some day soon I can adopt another dog. Meanwhile I have great cats to keep me company. Here's to all the dogs out there and those in doggie heaven... we are better people for having known you!

*WOOF*

Ch-ch-changes... cont'd.

Change is good right?

I took advantage of one of Blogger's new design templates. It's a bit.... hm... sherbet-y. But I think I like it. This new template should also make it easier for folks to follow me (if they choose). The old design wouldn't accommodate the Blogger nav bar at the top. Or, maybe it's more accurate to say, I couldn't figure out how to modify the HTML to make the nav bar fit.

At any rate, let me know what you think of this colorful new setup.