Community Theatre CATS!

Pretty much can't be done.  According to one acclaimed costume designer - and this must intoned in a deep, throaty, Katharine Hepburn educated drawl - "There can be only ONE fat cat."

I'm not saying that there aren't svelte dancer bodies in community theatre.  I'm just saying that there aren't enough of them that you'd want to see encased in Lycra, rolling around a stage attempting to lick their nether regions.  Community theatre musicals tend to be filled with middle-aged bodies who have been through life, have found their mates and therefore no longer feel the need to go to the gym and keep toned.  Your average community theatre production of CATS! would have a cast full of Grizabellas, Old Deuteronomys and Jennyanydots.

There are certain shows that you just can't do in our small provincial town.  Even in 2012, most of our residents are the WASPiest people you'll ever see.  We can be chock a block with whores, pimps and crooks on our stage, but try to have a balanced portrayal of the real world with real skin tones?  It ain't gonna happen here.  Sure we can do Little Shop of Horrors, but Chiffon, Crystal & Ronnette are not going to be black.  South Pacific, West Side Story?  Ain't happening unless it's completely colour-blind casting.  Although some of the older generation wouldn't even pause at the thought of "throwing on a little more makeup" on the Puerto Ricans.  Hairspray?  Not a chance.  Ours is the town where, when we were looking for diversity for our cast of hippies in Hair, I went up to a stranger on the school playground, who happened to be black, and ask if she could sing.   Instead of slapping me across the face for racial profiling, thank God she took the question in the spirit in which it was asked, and 'dropped trou' with the rest of the cast. 

Basically, we're stuck doing theatre by and for white people (which if you really think about it - is what happens - even on Broadway). Gypsy, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, Sweeney Todd, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas... Decades from now, when the rights to The Lion King come up, unless it's an all-white cast who somehow manage to be fabulous puppeteers AND dancers,  it won't be staged here.  Sure, community theatres can get away with Fiddler on the Roof - although the closest synagogue is a 1/2 hour away in any direction from our town, and most productions think nothing of having actors in 'Jewface" with over-the-top wigs and/or facial hair.  And you know why?  Because there just aren't enough Jews in our neck of the woods to be offended. 

So the way we get to push the envelope?  We do Jesus Christ Superstar every ten years or so - which as late as 2002, still had the religious right protesting the show's blasphemous nature. (Apparently Jesus would never want to rock out.)  Rocky Horror comes out every now and again - and we've done The Full Monty.  Oh, the titillation of naked or nearly naked neighbours onstage!  They just aren't black neighbours and you still wouldn't want to see them encased in Lycra.

Stumpy the Cat

Minuit's delicate derriere

That poem by Sandburg, with the line "The fog comes in on little cat feet"? Well, Sandburg didn't know Minuit.  Minuit is 'rubinesque.'  She's not quite as round as she is long, but she does a fair impersonation of that cat.  She is the antithesis of most cat adjectives, being neither stealthy nor particular graceful.

Minuit's version of "Fat Cat Capsizing"

The fat happened when we lived in NJ for 6 months.  While Stateside, she became reclusive.  I'm not saying Grey Gardens reclusive, but she now has a tendency to growl and run whenever the doorbell rings.  She's skittish - taking to darting ahead of you on staircases and hiding under the dining room table.  I think maybe one of those times when she was racing ahead on the stairs, she wound up underneath David's feet and hasn't ever been the same since.  She's like a paranoid drug addict.


With all her extra weight, Minuit STUMPS around the house.  She STUMPS down the hall, she STUMPS to her food bowl, she STUMPS to the bed.  And now the Dean Martin Roast for Minuit:

"She so fat, she makes a grunting noise when she jumps up onto the couch.  We have mistaken her footsteps for that of our 12 year old daughter.  She can't ever play the "I'm invisible" game with the other cats because you can hear her walking.   She's so heavy that when she sits on my abdominal aorta - I almost pass out."

Plus she stinks.  For an added "eeeeeew" factor, if you scare her - she gives a panicked jump and squirts from her frightened cat's ass.

We've tried to limit her food intake, but with three cats in the household I can't spend an entire day monitoring who eats what - it would mean that I'd have to lock her away for 1/2 hour at a time, morning and night, while she eats - basically I would be putting her into solitary confinement because she's fat.  That's never good for a gal's psyche - human or feline. I'm thinking she might just have to stay fat...  We've tried to get her to chase a laser but she's smart enough to know that we're moving the laser and she just looks at our hand.  She sporadically chases after and fetches tin foil balls - but I'm thinking the 5 minutes at a time she attempts to gallop isn't enough to get her in shape.  I would love to get David to build a cat exercise wheel and see if I could get her to use it, 'cause she has NO interest in walking on the treadmill with me.

And yet... and yet... she loves to sit on your lap and "prrrrrrowl" in pleasure.  She is adorable when she gets stuck after rolling on her back.  She has tonnes of personality.  She's just... fat.

There are HOW MANY aisles??

So this week I went to the One Of A Kind Craft Show in Toronto with my friend Meg, a OOAK Toronto Virgin.  This show is SO huge that when you're trying to navigate your way through, you need to give directions like this:

"Okay, go west until you hit the Wawa goose and then take a right until you get to Hudson's Bay..."

Meg was looking up at the aisle markers  - we had started at Y and were making our way backwards.

"This can't possibly start at A!"

Oh yes it can.

There are over 1000 vendors who have each spent, on average, $3000 for a 10 x10 booth to sell their wares. Just think about that folks.  They have to sell at least $3000 to break even.  Or they could consider it $3000 worth of advertising - which, when you're a small business owner - advertising should be a large part of your budget anyway - but $3000?!?  That would mean they'd have to sell $100 items at $30 to break even.

For those of us who are relatively cash shy - the purchase of something at even the $30 range causes a moment's pause.  Let alone the most adorable owl pillow for $68.  I want that disposable income that would allow me to buy this from Velvet Moustache at booth B-59:

or this from Kelly Grace at booth K-08:

or this from Gosia Art at booth S-07:

Plus this by Floyd Elzinga at booth K-04

Or pop art by Denial Art at booth 1-44

Or these fan-freaking-tastic purses made from reclaimed books and belts!!!  By Noelle Hamlyn at booth W-43

But just because I can't personally afford all these fabulous things, doesn't mean that you, or a loved one can't.  Pass their info around - support these wonderfully talented folks!

And lo, there were lights...

 

Rissa was at a sleepover, we had the house to ourselves for the evening, so when we left Shopper's, arms laden with chips and popcorn, we were intent on getting home as quickly as possible.  (Insert eyebrows waggling in deliberate sexual innuendo here.)  It was cold and drizzly as we raced back towards our house.  But then, we hit George Street, and I looked south towards the Town Hall.  There were holiday lights and garlands and fir trees all twinkly and sparkly, it was a defibrillator to my holiday joy.

I'm like a freaking magpie. Christmas decorations instantly delight me - the twinklier the better.  Why is it that something as simple as coloured lights can make a gal so happy?  I won't beg for jewelery, but show me sparkly lights and I almost lose my mind with giddiness.

"Can we go see?  Can we go see?" I jumped up and down - a 5 year old had possessed my body.

"If you like," said David in his Father Knows Best voice.

I scampered down to the main street to get closer to the twinkle and the holiday swag.  There were families making their way east towards the park.

"Maybe they're lighting up the park!!  Can we go?  Can we go??"

We stood together, David had his arm around me to keep me warm.  I didn't bring along my Cold Avenger mask - I was breathing through my scarf.  We were stomping our feet - David didn't even have gloves - we weren't supposed to be out of the house for long - we'd just gone out for 'before the sex' snacks.  A half hour later, amidst a crowd of eager young families and bumped-into friends, David and I stood - counting down to illumination.   As hundreds of us yelled, "Three, Two, One!!!" the park was ablaze with colour and sparkle - our small provincial town was a freaking fairyland. 

We walked home, hand in hand, still grinning.  Holiday music was piped in on the main street.  People were laughing, kids were saying "Did you see?  Did you see?"  We basked in those small town moments.  A few steps from our door, the drizzle, which had mercifully abated while we were waiting in the park, began again.   Even that made us smile, so disgustingly contended were we.   All of this unexpected joy, because we'd wanted chips and popcorn.

The bandshell with attending minature village.

Small town park - or could it be  DISNEYLAND?!?

You'd have to be soulless not to like this shit!

Paying it forward...

Everybody wants something, right?  And you don't get something for nothing.  That's the rumor.  Watch out folks, my inner Pollyanna is courteously clawing her way to the surface!   The sun is shining and I'm filled with the frickin' milk of human kindness.  I have a proposition:  what if instead of all the take, take, taking - we just did a bit more of the paying it forward?

Doesn't come easily to some.  You're in your own world, you're stressed, your credit line is through the roof, the kids need to be taken to dance, or hockey, or piano...  You're busy, you don't have time.  But how about this?  Just for today -  do something without wanting anything in return.  Today, it's not going to be about you.

So leave the quarter (or loonie) in your No Frills cart, drop a handful of lucky pennies in a public place, if you've got a granola bar (or leftovers from your pricey lunch) give them to someone who's hungry.  Say "Yes" instead of your automatic "No."  Spread the word about a cause that needs momentum.  Throw accolades at the unsuspecting.  Compliment that gal at the bank who has awesome hair.  Smile at a stranger - say a "Good morning!"

Yes, it's corny, but you know what else?  I can guarantee that every little act that you do - every little act not for you - every act of kindness without that selfish core - makes you happier.  That's what's so great about it.  The less selfish you are, the more you think of others, the happier you become.   You end up getting something for yourself, just by being... nice. 

So how about just for today, share the happy.  Tomorrow you can go back to being an asshole.

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara

My weekend is full of Santa Claus Parades and Peter Pan rehearsals  - so we're into reruns...

***

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara, which means a regular guy will not ever be able to sweep up into his arms.  I was reminded of this the other night when David hugged me.  I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist and he really did his best not to drop me or give in to the impending hernia.  He didn't grimace or anything!!  I sighed and let myself down so that we didn't hurt ourselves.

"The Scarlett O'Hara, being-carried up-the-staircase-thing, just ain't gonna happen with me."

"It's not you, it's me."

"Pardon?"

"I don't have the upper body strength.  I need to do more pushups."

"Yeah, that... and I don't weigh 120 lbs and haven't since I was 12."

"If you weighed 120 lbs, you'd look like a cadaver."

"Yes.  But I'd be a cadaver that you could then sweep into your arms and carry up the stairs."

"Not unless I do a lot more pushups."

I might have pouted.

In an uncharacteristic Caveman moment of problem-solving, David responded.  "I could drag you up by the hair."

"Tempting..."

Delete, delete, delete

I should just un-subscribe.  That'd be the sane thing to do.  From Old Navy and Ikea.  From the Gap and Sears.  From Style at Home and Banana Republic.

UNSUBSCRIBE HEATHER!!!  

I don't have money to buy any crap from any of the retailers who send me their online flyers.  I have financial blinders on.  We require nothing new in our house.  Apart from a new roof, but I don't get flyers for that.

Except right now?  We're leading up to Christmas and I do still have some shopping to do - and what if there was something perfect for that niece/nephew/mother-in-law/parent/child/spouse/friend???  What then?  Then I would have missed it and could have SAVED money on the gift - so really I can't unsubscribe until after Christmas.  So for now... just one quick peek (you know, just to see what potential gifts I might be missing out on)  and then delete, delete, delete...

Alfred, Macy janitor: "Yeah, there's a lot of bad 'isms' floatin' around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism. Make a buck, make a buck. Even in Brooklyn it's the same - don't care what Christmas stands for, just make a buck, make a buck."