Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Dialog with Neighbor Girl

On the afternoon of the opera, I was adjusting the Wanna wig. I was working with the wig on the wig form and created a carefully artless Elvis-Presley-Michael-Jackson spit-curl by my right eyebrow. I carried it to the bathroom, plunked it on my head, and was evaluating if it was too precious when I had to go get the mail.

This lead me into the path of a four-year old neighborhood girl.

Girl: Is your hair a new color?

Me: No, my hair is still dark brown, but this wig I'm wearing is lighter.

Girl: What's under your wig?

Me: (pulls off wig) See? 

Girl: YOU look like a GRANDMA!

Me: Well, I'm old enough to be a grandma. I'm sixty.

Girl: I'm four.

And then she held up four fingers, and I realized I would need to recruit five neighbors to have enough fingers to calculate my age.

At least she wasn't traumatized when my hair came off.

Opera: Tosca

Yet another opera about non-consensual sex. Unfortunately, this meant I found myself saying things like, "My favorite aria was the one in the church during the prayer, when Scarpia sings about how much he likes raping people." (You can tell he likes it, not just from the enraging lyrics, but because they had the villain's hands centimeters away from masturbating on stage.)

However, it had a plot, and parts were very powerful. The sets had excellent photo projections that at one point even moved the plot forward. The color scheme was very subdued. It was almost black and white with just one saturated color per act.

However, that led to one flaw that took me out of the action for a bit. A character picks up a drawing and comments on the model's blue eyes, but it's all black and white. Lucky there's no Opera Theater IMDB Goofs section.

I did like it, though, because I love a plot. It was very satisfying to have a chance to hiss and boo at the villain during his ovation. Poor baritone could only use his face to say, "But really, I'm a nice guy." 

Pre-Opera Pining

I don't think I've ever seen the Gay Divorcee before today, and I know I've never heard Fred Astaire hiss out this exchange:

Egbert Fitzgerald: Guy, you're not pining for that girl!

Guy Holden: Pining? Men don't pine. Girls pine. Men just... suffer.

I feel you Fred, especially the way you say "suffer" with such feeling, and I am here to tell you girls can suffer too. I am suffering. I AM SUFFERING.

The effects of seeing the crowd at the opera last week haven't abated. I'm still heady from all the men in their finery. Don your vests and ties, gentlemen. Put on your plumage, peacocks. At one point last week I said to Friend Anne, "I would give myself right now to any man in a hat." 

This week we went again to the pre-show picnic and again I experienced the Temptation Parade. 

Amazingly, I saw Salmon Pants again in the lobby. He was wearing the pants but no matching bowtie. "Look, Salmon Pants!" I said to Anne. She replied, "Don't even think about it." But then later, after intermission, she nudged me and said, "Pst Pst Pst Salmon Pants," as he walked by to his seat.

(If anyone in the Saint Louis area knows Salmon Pants, have no fear. He just holds a special place in my heart as the first living man I have encountered for three plus years who isn't selling me a car. He's in no danger. And really, he is one of many, He's just the only one wearing distinctive pants.)

Perhaps all this suffering will wane after I get used to being out. 

 

TWIL: I Live Spitting Distance from a Potential Saint

Evidently there’s an allegedly incorruptible saint’s body a few hundred miles from my house.

It doesn’t seem that remarkable, somehow. There are bog people. And I have to wonder how many other non-embalmed people are dug up and are still in good shape after a few years. is it a common occurrence and only gets attention when it’s a potential saint?

Rewriting the Novel: Too Much

My plan was to work on the novel again over Memorial Day weekend ... and did I? No. And why? Because after several years of working on this blatant therapy, it occurred to me that what I have as the middle needs to be pushed up to the first quarter. That would be better, I said, even though it was 2 in the morning, which is not the best time to make decisions.

I suppose I could do that. I mean, I am not doing that. But I could. But I won't. What I need to do is finish this draft. 

You know, when I program there's always the ugly kludgy answer and the elegant answer, and the elegant answer never occurs to me until I put the finishing touches on the kludgy answer. Perhaps that's a problem I can avoid here.

But will I? No I won't.

Baby Birthday

The first raccoon babies actually came out on Monday, but I didn't have my camera by me.

It gets earlier every year.

This mom actually has six babies: one more than is typical. There are videos, but Gary hasn't been motivated to upload them. 

Weekly Paint Progress: 5/25

This week the cloud collage went from this:

...to this.

… and I’m done with that. That’s it for clouds for now. 

Goal clouds:

Garden Disaster or Garden Opportunity

I scattered Preen weed killer / fertilizer all throughout the garden, forgetting to avoid the six year-old bugleweed and creeping Jenny I cultivated so it spills artfully over the wall and softens the transition from the rocks to the lirope.

So now all that is dead. I could replant it, or I could see if any if it resurrects. Or I could left the lirope grow up to the edge. Or I could dig everything up, or start from scratch.

I do need to thin out the flowering thyme. I could start with that and then see where to go. 

Sad, though. 

Laundry Detritus

This is a gross tale. I can only hope that my experience can help someone else in a similar situation. 

For two days this week I have noticed this weird rubbery substance in various spots in the laundry room. It was like long thin strips of some shredded material. White, a little frilly, had lots of holes. 

There were just scraps of it at first, then I found a lot of it in the rubber gasket in the washing machine. Like, the motherlode of damp frilly shreds. Of course, I thought the washer was disintegrating. 

Nope. Days later I found a dry scrap, and finally deduced that I had scraped my heel calluses into a towel that I neglected to shake out before tossing it in the washer. The shaved strips of  dead skin were softened and rubberized by the detergent. 

So watch out for that, and shake out your towels before they go in the washer.

Review: Treemonisha

One thing about watching the promenade at the opera is that you'll easily identify The individuals who stand out. (Sadly, no one else wove a tree tableau in her hair as I did. I was a lonely woodland princess.) Many others stood out. The man in the white robes. The woman in the pink dress and green shoes. And especially, the man in the black and gold brocade. 

The man in brocade was walking by my seat when a woman nearby called out "Damien!" (I noticed she was wearing the red version of the high-low number I'm wearing next weekend for Tosca.)

Damien (in brocade) turned around and stopped right in front of me, but I didn't listen in on their conversation. I might have if I'd known he was the composer who revised Scott Joplin's opera into a presentable work. He and Karen Chilton composed and wrote two acts that bookend the original opera. (I don't know what she was wearing but she looks vaguely familiar in another article.)

It's a little odd, because the new acts are clearly written by someone else. The music sounds reminiscent of the popular Scott Joplin music, while the original music in the middle of the opera is really soaring and beautiful. The lyrics for the bookends do not match the middle at all. The middle ... well, I kept thinking it was a poor translation.

But, the dancing was delightful, and the choral pieces had wonderful trills and runs. Some parts were very fresh and funny. And the female lead was just spectacular.

If I were to see it again I would go to one of the pre-opera lectures they give under the picnic tents. This one requires some homework. 

Pre-Opera

I was giddy all day with the prospect of going to the opera, and then I was giggly all day when I realized what I was excited about.

The opportunity to talk with a man in the flesh. Emphasis on flesh. Perhaps even flirting with a man for the first time in three years. That's what I was anticipating. (And don't tell me I have a husband. I have over-complimented him and now it doesn't even register.)

Once I knew what I wanted, and I picked up friend Anne, and sat down to the pre-opera al fresco meal, I ran commentary on the people streaming past us to the picnic tent. I said, "Ooh look at those pants" and "Check it out, man in a hat" and "man with hands in pockets at three o'clock" until Anne said, "Oh you poor thing."

Which was why, when we were waiting for the doors to open, Anne nudged me.

"Salmon Pants," she said, nodding toward a man I had noticed in the Man Parade wearing salmon-pink pants and a matching bow-tie. He had eaten dinner in view of our table.

I strode over and touched him politely on the arm.

"I have to tell you, you have just excellent fashion sense. I've been admiring you all through the picnic." Then I gestured at his ensemble.

"Oh, you're making me blush," he said, "Thank you," and then he nooded at his date. "I'm with her," he said, randomly.

"Oh she looks gorgeous too. But look at you!" I waved at his ensemble. Then I left. Because, you know, it could have become awkward. Drop the compliment bomb and vanish.

Then after the opera it got even worse because as we were filing out a man in a tuxedo was walking in and I did a complete 360 while walking so I could watch him walk away. And I did not fall down. When I was facing forward again Anne said, "Tuxedo?" and I breathed "Man lingerie" and a woman next to us laughed.

I occurred to me that if Salmon Pants has season tickets I will see him again, but he won't spot me because I will be wearing a different wig for every performance, and if that is not a pervy thing to say I don't know what is.

Dan Duryea

I am currently in love with the film noir actor Dan Duryea. 

No matter how horrible the movie is, he can elevate it. Seriously, in World for Ransom, which is a very bad movie, he says the most wretched dialog and somehow makes you think you're watching an urbane comedy, because his delivery is just a delight. In fact, often it shines brightest because everyone else in the movie is awful. The more wooden they are, the more captivating he is. He spits out garbage in his special snappy cadence and makes it sound like gold.

This means I've been watching some seriously awful movies just because he's in them. You wouldn't have heard of those movies; most are boilerplate film noir.

However, he was in two excellent movies: The Little Foxes and Flight of the Phoenix (1965). Oddly, I don't remember him in either, probably because he couldn't shine in the darkness as per usual, given he was playing opposite Bette Davis and Jimmy Stewart. I had to look it up on IMDB (instead of watching both those movies again), and he's the very Catholic passenger in Phoenix and Bette's craven nephew in Foxes.

Here he is in something good: Scarlet Street. For cat's sake.

 

Work Icebreaker

Meetings at TeddyJ often start with icebreakers. I was born with my built-in icebreaker: my extra thumb. 

I was in a meeting the other day, and the instructor presented us with the oddest icebreaker.

"What's something you did before you were eighteen that you're proud of?"

Completely blank. I truly did not do a thing I was proud of in my youth. I struggled to think of anything, but the thoughts that surfaced were all "kept my head down" and "did what my mom said." It came around to me too soon.

"Nothing," I said. "Survived? I can't think of a thing I did." And she replied that a lot of kids don't survive, so now I'm Aborted Suicide Attempt Girl.

I realize now I had two good options:

1. Lie. I could have published a book of poetry or given a stranger CPR.
2. Say "I was born with an extra thumb" because that still works. I did it before 18 and I'm proud of it.

 

Weekly Paint Progress: 5/18

This week the cloud collage went from this:

... to this.

Sigh. Clouds are hard.