I was joking around. Throwing out the one-liners. Getting people to relax. Chit-chatting. Looking all unconcerned and unaffected by the process. Slipped on my kick-ass heels and crossed my ankles delicately, doing my best to channel Julie London.
Then, as I walked in front of the auditioning panel, I felt those same ankles tremble. My feet, in those kick-ass heels caught the contagion. Then my knees - leaving me feeling like I might have been on boat for too long. Listening to the introductory chord of the song, my mouth opened, the nerves that had been pooling in my stomach traveled up my trachea and blarrrted from my throat. Breathless, unsupported... trembly. My right hand moved from my side and pushed against my diaphragm to add some manual strength.
Ann-Margret from her 1966 USO tour to Vietnam
I excel at public speaking. I can get up in front of a room, nay a theatre, an arena full of strangers and extemporize. I'm completely fine, I'm one of the few people in the world who LIKES public speaking. I enjoy cracking wise - love to get people to relax with laughter. Public speaking is my sweet spot. Acting auditons are a breeze.
Me, standing in front of a panel of people prepping for a singing audition? I freak the fuck out. My body betrays me, I can't support my tone. The song which had power and control at home in front of my daughter and husband - becomes this mediocre thing. In my ears it becomes a sharing of 'meh' with people. Leaving me wondering, is that note flat or sharp? Second-guessing each breath, each belt, each tone.
Later, when I'd had a chance to calm down, to get rid of my vocal heebie-jeebies, they tested my range. No longer nervous, I could hit that out of the park. Now that I'm older, my used-to-be lyric soprano has tempered and I can hit low notes, nice chesty notes, my own version of Nina Simone notes. I've still got some range at the top. My break isn't too defined. I can belt the hell out a song when I'm not nervous. I had to be taught to sing softly - I Ethel Mermaned my way through singing when I was young. Great big voice, no control. Took me years to sing pianissimo.
I have been auditioning for 34 freaking years. Since I was 11. At what point in a performer's career do the nerves disappear? At what point is my body going to believe in me?
"Do you want to see what my navel can do?" We're in the grocery store. Rissa is in full-on lunatic mode. She has been tying bunny ears on all the bags of our vegetables. You know... so they'll be securely closed and it'll look like we have an entire cart full of transparent rabbits. (I really shouldn't be surprised. I think it's genetic. My father used to race down the aisles of grocery stores with the shopping cart, much to my mother's embarrassment.)
Apparently, Rissa's navel can climb buildings.
"What... it pops off your body, and all on its own...?"
"No! Noooooo! It has a Navel Squid, that can come out and use its suction cups you know, ON things."
"I think I need an example."
"Like this." Rissa's lifts up her shirt to expose her belly button and then she violently assaults my side with her stomach, making a sucking noise deep in her throat.
"It can also push shopping carts..." She detaches from my side and 'sucks' onto the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it forward with her abdomen, a low squelching noise accompanying her movement.
She is doing the a capella version of Broadway Here I Come from the second Season of Smash (the best and worst in T.V.), desperately trying to figure out the percussive accompaniment at the foot of her bed. She is clapping and snapping and stomping her feet. She should have been in bed at least 15 minutes ago.
"You need to get into bed. It is bed time now. Go to sleep."
Dejectedly, she climbs into her bed. I make to turn the light off.
"Wait! Wait! I need to just... please may I just have one tiny spaz out? Just a little one. Like for 18 seconds or so?"
"Fine. You may spaz out for 18 seconds."
She does her best Linda Blair impersonation for 18 seconds, then lies panting.
"You done?"
"International solvent!!"
"What?"
"International solvent in my nose to calm me down when I'm like this at bedtime!! I'd be all like... (she moves her head frenetically to and fro...)WHOA... HEY! WHOA...(She then mimes having something sprayed up her nose, her eyes roll back, her head falls to the side and she lets out a deep throaty snore.) "See? Like that."
"International solvent? Do you know what a solvent* is?"
"Yeah, it's like in nose drops or eye drops."
"Saline solution? Is that what you think you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Cause a solvent is generally something used to dissolve things, like to dissolve paint."
"Don't put that in my nose!" She is grasping my hands in hers, now panicked.
"I wasn't going to!"
"You can't put that in my nose! What if my brain got all..."
"You have to stop talking."
"I can't."
"You have to try."
"This towel is all wet from my hair, I'm going to die of hypothermia."
"You are not going to die of hypothermia..."
"What if the hypothermia..."
My words, now muffled, because I have buried my own head in the towel-covered pillow beside her, "Why won't you stop talking?"
"Because I love you?"
"I love you too. Now stop talking."
*I had to look it up. She was right.
sol·vent(slvnt, sôl-)
adj.
1. Capable of meeting financial obligations.
2. Chemistry Capable of dissolving another substance.
n.
1. Chemistry
a. A substance in which another substance is dissolved, forming a solution.
b. A substance, usually a liquid, capable of dissolving another substance.
2. Something that solves or explains.
A solvent could totally be used to dissolve her insanity at bedtime. It's like she's some sort of dada-esque savant.
Step 1: Rent a 70 foot long inflatable obstacle race with 10 foot slide exit.
Step 2: Let children know they can use it.
Step 3: Turn your back for the briefest of moments.
Beautiful bucolic fall day. Sun shining, birds singing, crisp air. As the inflatable sought form on the pavement, rosy-cheeked, tow-headed tots and youth lined up champing at the bit to have the okay to enter. "Is it ready yet?" "Can we go on now?" "When can we use it?" "This is for US?!?"
They marvelled at this amazing engineering feat. "It's HUGE!!!" "Look at the climbing wall!!" "I'm going to spend the rest of my LIFE on this!" We gave them rules: Two people at a time on the slide. Watch out for the little ones. Have Fun. We'll be watching from right over here.
Happy shrieks filled the air. There was much giggling and skipping around to use the course. Then, the children devolved. And by children, I mean the boys. After 15 minutes, boys between the ages of 10 and 13, chose the top of the slide as their 'castle,' refused to let any girls up and gleefully tossed smaller boys over the edge to their 'death.' "HAH! You're DEAD! We just pushed you over the cliff!!"
Lord of the Flies 1963 - directed by Peter Brook
15 minutes. Civility was lost in 15 minutes. Smiles and giggles gave way to the tears and hiccupping sobs of small-to-medium-sized children. "They boys w... w... won't... let us up there!!" "He p...p... pushed us over the top of the slide!" "I don't w...w...want to worship the severed pig's head!"
We then had to install several young adults at the top of the slide to ensure that chaos would no longer reign. 15 minutes folks. It wasn't hours, it wasn't days. They weren't lost on an island. They were within sight of ALL their parents. It took 15 minutes. Thank God I had the conch.
Last night. High Jump. Vault. 100 Metre Dash. One of my favourites was the synchronized diving. Watching cats accomplish such a feat - takes your breath away. Literally. It literally takes your breath away. When cats land on you, from a great height, in the middle of the night - the wind is knocked out of you. Each of us with 15 lb cats on our diaphragms - couldn't even yell out in surprise - there was no air within us to yell. The subsequent hurdles at 2:00 a.m. were spectacular.
I'm thinking it's the cooler fall temperatures. All three of them seem to have lost their minds. The relay races in the upstairs hallway alone have turned our house into the CN Freight Line. Lola has been in training for track. She is in compulsive fetching mode. This week her toy of choice is a makeup sponge Rissa has been using for face painting. There were a bunch of them drying on the counter beside the sink. Lola found them on the counter and began bringing them to me. I hid them in a container on the counter, but she found that too. Then I hid them in a bag on the kitchen table, which she also found. At that point I figured she was just watching me hide them so I tossed her one. She's been it ever since. At what point can we begin to make money off this talent?
The first week back to school was surprisingly easy. Disproportionate levels of ease. It was smoooooooth, it was cream cheese icing, it was James Brown.
This second week back to school is kicking our asses. We are so frickin' tired. It feels like we have a new baby or puppy in the house. We are devolving to amoeba state, fighting our urge to ooze across the floor in our exhaustion.
By middle of the first week back to school, Rissa had her first cold. (Because children, not fleas, are the plague carriers. Smiling, tow-headed tots will end the world. Take your vitamins. Wash your hands.) Rissa was sniffing and sneezing, blowing her nose, but as soon as I'd even glance sideways at her she'd be all, "I'b nod sick Mummy! I'b nod!" And yet, even with the cold, she was in fairly good spirits.
This week was her first week back to dancing full time. Having decided to enter the competitive dance world this year, Rissa is dancing 3 nights a week and all day Saturday. Last night my 13 year old daughter was at the dance studio until 9:45 p.m.Idon't like to be out at 9:45 p.m. on a weeknight. And here's the thing... Sure, she's done dancing at 9:45 - but she's not home until 9:55, finishes showering by 10:05 - and even if she lies in bed, she's still winding down from the exercise at 10:30. Teenagers need copious amounts of sleep. Buckets, bins, quarries full of sleep. It's been documented. In MEDICAL JOURNALS. She's running out of steam and it's only her first week back to dance. And I know, I know, there are tonnes of kids out there who are up much later and are much more scheduled in their exctra-curricular time than Rissa is, but I also know they're not MY kid. I know my kid. David and I share these raised eyebrow silent communications:
This isn't looking good. I know. She's going to lose it. I know. What are we going to do? See how this week goes, and then we rain fire down upon the dance studio? How about we have a discussion with the studio? And then we rain fire? You can carry the BBQ lighter if you like.
All this to say that I may have to put on my Parent Pants next week. With accompanying stern face. Sure, Rissa might look like she's 17, but she ain't. This morning she slept through her alarm. Which wouldn't usually be cause for alarm, except that Rissa has NEVER slept through her alarm. EVER. She prides herself on getting up early. (I pride myself on having a daughter who can get herself up in the morning.) And yeah, she wants to dance, but my job as a parent is to make sure that she's educated and challenged and happy, but most important healthy and can make it through her whole week. Not just school, not just homework, not just dance, not just (what is now laughingly referred to as) down time but EVERYTHING. If having her over-scheduled, even doing something she loves to do, makes the rest of her week tank? Something will have to give. And it ain't gonna be her, I'll tell you that.
Way, way, WAAAAAY back when - there were these things called girdles. Everyone who was anyone wore one. And you know why? Because, back in the day, there were lots of form-fitting clothes. And women wore them. Because why? Because of a girdle. Today's girdles are Shapewear. Spanx. Basically they're wetsuits. Add a snorkel and a mask and you're good to go swimming with dolphins. They take about 5 minutes to get into, but blessedly, they can come off with a violent downward tearing motion in about 10 seconds. After which, your body, which has been held in, squeezed and tightened into a flatter version of you, can relax. Most women will then collapse onto the nearest bed, chair or piece of floor in front of them, emitting self-satisfied emancipated groans of pleasure, quoting Martin Luther King Jr.
I just wore a wet suit to a friend's wedding. I struggled into one that hides the back fat and goes all the way down to mid thigh, smoothing everything pretty much everywhere. What's the opposite of a snake working out of its skin? Whatever that is, that's me putting shapewear on. Undulating, doing my own version of Afro-Jazz, Belly Dance and Krump to fit me into something that is not the size of me.
When you're in one of these one-piece suckers, there's this crotch flap... oh dear God... yes there is a CROTCH FLAP. So that when you have to go to the bathroom, you don't have to strip off all your gear - you just reach down and... you know... part the flap and you pee. I don't think you can ever take a crap while wearing one-piece shapewear. I don't know how you could contort yourself on the toilet to reach behind and make sure the flap was open enough for... Although, who is really going to feel comfortable enough to take a crap at their friend's wedding? I think it's almost impossible to crap while wearing evening attire.
I digress. Back to the peeing. Even with this handy-dandy crotch flap, when I get ready to pee while wearing the wet suit, I have a wee panic. (No pun intended.) On account of the fact that even though I reach down and I part the flap, I can still FEEL the wetsuit on my hips, my thighs - so it FEELS like I'm still wearing underwear, which means that it feels like I'm going to pee my pants. That's when, generally, I pull those flaps as wide apart as I can, turn my head to the side and just let loose. But all the way through that pee? I'm still nervous. Then, when you're done peeing, you can't just let the flap close, 'cause then you'll have pee all over your flap, so you have to somehow, with ONE HAND, keep the flap open while you reach for the toilet paper to dry yourself. Of course the smart girls probably gather the toilet paper before the peeing begins, but even so, you still can't really have it in your hand, ready and waiting, because then you'd pee on it. After all of the flap opening, spreading and wiping, then flushing, you finally get yourself together and you smooth your skirt down and you overly wash your hands and leave the bathroom.
Then when you return to the wedding reception, your spouse usually asks, "What took you so long?"
Twice last summer, I woke myself by biting my tongue in my sleep. Really hard. Lots
of blood, can't-chew-your-food-the-next-day, hard. So, like any modern
gal, I Googled it. Type 'biting tongue in sleep' into Google and the next thing you know, you've got epilepsy. And then you start reading about all the symptoms of epilepsy and it turns out you have more than one symptom! (It's akin to being a first year Psych student when you think you have every mental disorder in the book.) That then sends you on a quick trip down hypochondriac lane, which is NEVER good. You flit from page to page and feel the panic wash over you, start to calculate the cost of anti-seizure medicine when your spouse's drug plan no longer covers you in retirement - and that's when you have to watch cute animal videos to calm yourself down. Or at least that's my cycle of crazy.
I have had a LOT of cycles of crazy. Chronic pain sufferers usually do. You go through that period (could be years) where you seem to be a walking, talking list of symptoms. Trip after trip after trip to specialists and the ER, vague diagnoses, recommendations for pain management. When you finally get yourself to the point where you can move beyond being defined by your physical state and answer "Fine, thanks for asking," when someone asks "How are you?" - you head into peri-menopause, which is a whole new level of crazy-making. It's like some twisted cosmic joke. And any new symptom that you now exhibit sends you on a mental health devolutionary trek into Google-land.
So for now, until it happens again, I am implementing the Ostrich Method. I'm ignoring my seizure symptoms and all is good. I'm on the "if this happens a third time I'll mention it" plan of symptom management. Only David gets to hear the nitty-gritty about it. But since having a heart attack for me has been ruled out (Cardiologist convinced it's not my heart - YAY? ), David is MUCH more relaxed and less apt to take me forcibly to the ER. So far, I've only had 2 olfactory hallucinations and 2 tongue biting incidents. If either one happens a third time, I have agreed that we're consulting a true doctor, not just Google docs. But until then, two times lucky, right?
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