When the past comes back to bite you in the ass...

I should have been prepared. It's not like I'm new to this.  I've done shows before - I've suffered from Post-Show Depression.   But this time around - there's a 6 piece set + carry-on of emotional baggage that I hadn't counted on.

As an actor - for concentrated amounts of time - your cast and crew become your family. Generally from tech week through to closing, they're the people you see the most;  the ones you tease, the ones you cuddle, the ones you laugh at/with, the ones you tell to shut the hell up when they're making too much noise backstage.

Five years ago I did another show.  We were a tribe.  We got naked - both emotionally and physically and the fallout PSD from that show was spectacular.  Weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - fallout. Those forged friendships then, bonded some of us together on a cellular level.  We were a mess.  5 years ago, right after HAIR closed, one of my best friends died.  The last conversation I had with Shannon was my coping with the loss of my onstage tribe.

On Sunday night, I closed Jesus Christ Superstar.   Half the cast had also been in HAIR.  Same people. Same bonds.  Same teasing, cuddling and laughing.  I thought that I'd be too busy to fall into PSD.  We're moving - take possession of the house this week - my days and nights are full.  I am too busy for fallout.   Thing is? This time 5 years ago, when I was coping with PSD, I could talk to Shannon.  Shannon, The Queen of Commiseration.  Shannon, the  holder of hands and reminder to breathe.  Shannon,  the depository of secrets and the safe haven to get through the bad.

I dreamt all night of my tribe... Upon waking, my first thought was "I need to talk to Shannon."  My second thought was, "I can't, she's dead."   Hiccuping sobs, near to vomiting, as David smoothed my back and told me it would all be okay.   He doesn't understand though, that the perfect emotional storm has been set into motion. Tamped-down memories from 5 years ago, compounded with new-felt anguish from the loss of this cast and crew to which was added the remembrance of Shannon's death.   My stomach pitched and roiled - I didn't have my sea legs under me until half way through the day.

Stoicism is not amongst my character traits.  I immediately reached out to my friends, old and new, who support and 'get' me - those who suffer along with me as we regain our footing and remember that life goes on - even without those you love within arms' reach at your side. 

Chivalry is not dead.

I parked the car.  It was the first in the lot.  When I opened the door, three inches of freshly fallen powdery snow were at my feet.  The snow around my parking spot and all the way to the loading dock door was pristine.  It was too good to pass up.  I put on my hat, dropped my bag and sat my ass down in the snow.  I lay back, arms and legs outspread and revelled in snow angel creation.

I had risen and was dusting myself off when the loading dock door opened.  It was Riley, one of the dancers from the show.  He's about 16.

"Are you okay?!?"  True concern on his face.  "I saw you on your back in the snow..."

A few days previously, Riley had seen me in the midst of a sugar crash in the green room.  He probably thought I'd passed out.  He'd come to check on me.

I let out a bark of laughter.  I was still brushing snow off my jeans.  "No... Nope.  Just making a snow angel...  But it gives me such joy to discover that chivalry is not dead.  Thanks for checking up on me."

My heart broke at Value Village

The shoes were stunning.  Beautiful burgundy brogues, glowing in the flourescent lights of Value Village.  I spotted them from the end of the women's jackets aisle.    I'm always on the look out for a great pair of mens' shoes for David.  They have to be big shoes, David has massive feet.  Wide, wide, WIDE, flipper feet.  He usually buys an 11.5 or even a 12 to fit his toes into them.

So when I saw these spectacular shoes on the wall, my heart leapt.  They were pristine.  Beatifully polished - I looked at the soles, hardly any wear to them.  The tag said 14+ on them.  They were at least a size 14.  Such a shame - they were actually too large for David.  They'd be like clown shoes on him.  But they were stunning.  Probably from the 50s - I wanted to photograph them and make an encaustic print of them to hang upon my wall, they were so lovely.

Then I spotted another pair of shoes - same size - equally beautiful.  And another... and another.  6 in total.  All beautifully polished, all size 14+.

My heart sank.  These shoes, like everything else in Value Village, had belonged to someone.  They had belonged to someone who cared for them, who polished them, who took pride in wearing them.  These shoes had been donated in bulk.  Not because they were unfashionable or worn out, but because their owner had died.  A man, with size 14+ feet had died.  A snappy dresser of a man who shoed himself in the 50s - was now dead.  I imagined him very tall and thin - like a young Jimmy Stewart, with pleated trousers - possibly suspenders, a quick smile.

My heart sank again.  Who had donated the shoes?  His wife?  His life partner?  Had his surviving loved ones been responsible for the impeccably polished leather?  Had they spent an afternoon polishing these shoes before carefully placing them inside a box?  Before stuffing that box with paper and then taping it shut to go to Value Village?  Had their hands trembled while holding the packing tape?  Had they wept?  I was near to weeping imagining it all.

I started when Rissa placed her hand on my arm.

"What's wrong?"

"These shoes belonged to someone," I said.

She looked confused.  "Didn't they ALL belong to someone?"

"Yes baby, they did.  But this someone is now dead."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

She didn't ask any more questions.  She held my hand and squeezed it.  We stayed quiet for a few moments more before we turned away, still holding hands and walked to the jeans aisle.

Taxidermied Gophers

Does anyone else do this kind of stuff with their daughter?

David and the Dumpster of Death

"SON OF A..."

"MOTHER-$@*%&$!"

We had a dumpster delivered Monday morning.  We're down to the crunch before the move.  What hasn't been sold or donated by the moving date ends up in the steel depths of the most dangerous dumpster in Southern Ontario.

Before the dumpster was deposited on our driveway, we had snow.  And then rain.  And then more snow and more rain.   At this point in the winter, our driveway is the Skating Rink from Purgatory. There've been a couple of nights when it's taken me a good ten minutes to walk the 50 feet from the garage to the front of our house.

On his way to the garage, hands full of a box of  used hazardous materials, David tried to skirt by the newly placed dumpster... in the dark.  The dumpster is so wide that it leaves only 6-8 inches on either side of the driveway.  These 6-8 inches slope up to our lawn and, what with the accumulated winter precipitation, are now sheer ice.  Every step David took culminated in language that would make a dock worker blush, as his ankles repeatedly slammed against the steel of the dumpster.

Step.

"JESUS -*&$^#@ CHRIST!"

Step.

"C#&$-sucking RHINO!"

Step.

"You  $*#^@!$# - #&*#@^! -  #$@% - #&@^&! - #%!*&ING - #&*@^!*!!!!  I hope that your @#%&! - #*&^!$ and your #&@^%!# ends up with a #@&$^#%!!"

He showed me his bruised ankles upon his return.

"So what you're saying is that you injured yourself by walking with hazardous waste?"

"Yes."

"Lives up to its name, don't it?"   Then I ran, because I wasn't injured.

Bum Pocket, Boob Pocket.

It's Rissa's bedtime witching hour, when she winds up instead of down, when she giggles and plays instead of succumbing to slumber.

"Psssssssst.... do you see this tiny pocket??  It's wee!"

She has this thing for pockets.  Wee pockets in particular.  She likes to draw your attention to them - to share her love of pockets.  

Victoria's Secret makes these thermal long underwear jammies...  they have pockets.  Rissa and I have a both have a pair.  Me in a large - Rissa in an extra-small.  Rissa's bottoms fit her in length for about 6 minutes before her legs grew again.

She began mumble-singing.  Hmmmmmm-hummmming a tune that I couldn't quite hear.  She was turning this way and that.  Showing her back and  then her front.  I put my book down.

Rissa, with her tailend waggling towards me, "Bum pocket."  She jumped around and pointed to her chest. "Boob pocket."  Turning again, "Bum pocket."  And once more, "Boob pocket."  A quick jump around, "Bum Pocket!"  Another full leap, "BOOB POCKET!!"

Then the inevitable crash onto the bed - snorting with laughter -  laughing until she gives herself the hiccups.  I love bedtime.

Failure to Affix

For weeks now, in preparation for our impending move, we've been packing up our ginormous home.  Over the weekend I was tackling the office space and I ran out of packing tape.

"NO TAPE!!!  WE HAVE NO TAPE!!!"

"There might be some duct tape downstairs," says David.

Duct tape!  Perfect!  Duct tape sticks to everything - it's freaking awesome for its stickiness.  I practically skipped down to the basement to grab the tape.

I sang a happy little duct tape song when I climbed back up to the office.   I happily packed up many boxes of office supplies. ZIP-BOOM-DONE!  I brandished the roll of duct tape like a sharp shooter in a Western Film.  I used the fancy-dancy True Block labels so that all boxes could be labelled the same way, in the same corner.  It was a beautiful thing.


We're storing the office boxes in the guest bedroom.  I can see them through the pass-through from the office.  As I caught up on some writing, I looked across, feeling ever-so-accomplished at my afternoon's work. So I was actually watching as the duct tape slowly released its hold on the cardboard and the True Block labels fluttered down from the top left corners of their boxes.

Since when did duct tape NOT stick to cardboard?  When did that happen?  You get duct tape stuck to your freaking arm hair and you're praying for a bottle of paint thinner to release its seal.  You get duct tape stuck to itself and you have to throw it out.  But those cardboard boxes staring right at me - with their limp pieces of tape just lying there - all of them - middle-aged men in the midst of erectile dysfunction.  What's with cardboard??  It also repels those True Block labels. My system was ruined.  I began to panic as I realized that I'd have to use a Sharpie on raw cardboard.   I should have wrapped the entire box with duct tape and stuck the labels to that, instead of attempting to pack like a normal person.  If I'd done that I wouldn't have been sobbing on the floor when David found me.

"Okay love, you're done."

"I'm NOT done!  Look at them!  JUST LOOK AT THEM!!!"

"Come on.  We're going to get you a snack, maybe some juice..."

"I don't WANT any juice!"

"You may not WANT it, but you NEED it."

"Disproportionate emotional response?"

"Disproportionate emotional response."