Baritone Tonight

I'm currently rehearsing for a Broadway musical review. The voices that have been cast in this show are amazing. Strong singers, all. I've got to be in top form just to keep from embarrassing myself.

With a full music, singing rehearsal tonight, yours truly slept about three hours last night and then spent the entire day in smoky bars, drinking caffeinated beverages. In retrospect, perhaps Janis Joplin wasn't the best choice of warm-up music on the drive to the theatre, either.

I alternated between croaking and screeching, then gave up altogether and just mouthed the lyrics. It took all of about two minutes to be busted by the muscial director for pulling a Milli Vanilli.

Maybe I could do a piece from the Wizard of Oz? "If I Only Had a Brain" seems applicable.

Equal vs. Splenda

Entering week three of the sugar fast. Absolutely no refined sugar of any sort. As a matter of self-discipline, I've also elected to cut out honey, fruit, pasta, rice and as much white flour as possible with the exception of a couple Tap Room pretzel sticks.

When people ask me about the fast, their responses could just as well be on continuous loop. "Don't you just feel so much better?" It's an easy answer. No. I do not feel better. I feel like I want to walk into MacArthur's bakery and take a birthday-cake-buying hostage until the entire staff hand feeds me strawberry layer torte with whipped cream.

I'd like to thank the crew at Hartford Coffee (a few readers here, to be sure) for lying straight to my face when I ask how the freshly baked cookies taste. They've become really creative and believable with comments like, "There's a weird aftertaste. Probably too much baking soda."

My appreciation also goes out to my frequent dining partners who, largely without complaint, keep going back to the same restaurants with agreeable menus and willingly eat the same meals I cook for myself. The support is priceless.

My goal is to be sugar free until 1 July.

Beginning 2 July, you may send cards, flowers and balloons directly to my room at Barnes-Jewish hospital. Visiting would be a wasted effort as medical research hasn't conclusively determined the level of awareness in hyperglycemic, comatose patients.

But when I come around, I'll know you were thinking of me. How sweet!

Crusher of Dreams

Original post deleted by author on 6/12/06. Edited to minimize potential embarrassment of the parties involved and re-posted 6/13/06/.


Before my current career in the food service arts, I worked in social work/nursing/educational settings. I spent years with teenagers. Having filled this role I know, through both clinical and a practical experience, a bit about adolescent development.

So I’m not too freaked out that my kids are starting to develop their fledgling skills with the opposite sex. It’s normal. It’s age-appropriate. It’s even healthy to have interest in relationships.

All this being said, I failed miserably at the first test of my intellectualized parenting techniques.

Sunday evening was to be my younger daughter’s first official “date.” Granted it was only having her new friend over for dinner and a small gathering, but it was a planned meeting with a boy in whom she had more than a friendly interest. She did the inviting and supplied all the necessary information of time and location.

The date preparations began early. Hair up, hair down. Repeat. There were several costume changes and multiple layers of glitter lip-gloss applied. Some minor lamentation over not having earrings that matched the final outfit. Lotion, lots of it and perfume. Between each stage of primping, she’d demand the time.

On this exciting cusp of hopeful embarkation into her first boyfriend relationship, I decided to give her some advice gleaned from my personal experiences of dating.

“Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t show up. In fact, he probably won’t.” Stellar!

Her whole expression sank. She looked away and said softly, “He’ll be here.” but there was a deflated tone just beneath the affirming statement.

“Yeah? I wouldn’t wait by the door all night.” Superb!

Only after she did wait by the door and Prince Charming did arrive (ten minutes late!) did I start to feel like the jerk I really am.

Perhaps tonight I could follow up with some wisdom like, “He won’t stick around long.” or taunt her with “Bet your ‘boyfriend’ didn’t call today, did he?”

Brilliant!

I Blame Bob Reuter

Friday afternoons, I’m not myself.

For any readers not familiar with the St. Louis community radio station 88.1 KDHX, I recommend you check it out. Pretty sure you can listen on the web if you’re out of range.

From noon till two on Fridays, there’s a show called Bob’s Scratchy Records. He plays old songs. The kind of songs I heard my parents and grandparents play on LPs back when our record player was housed in an enormous wooden cabinet, larger than the dining table with the leaf in it.

I try to run errands and make deliveries during lunch on Friday, just so I can listen. If the truth be told, some days I just say I have things to do and then park under a huge tree in Tower Grove Park for an hour or more, pretending to be someone else.

My mind wanders, listening to those songs.

I imagine standing at a drive-in, leaning up against an old Chevy and wearing a pencil skirt with ballerina flats. Other times, I’m transported to a small frame church in the south, where I’m a heavy black woman in my best Sunday dress and hat just movin’ to the music. Around I spin to juke joints, to Beale Street, to a sock hop. I feel like I can see 'em all and sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m part of the scene.

Usually, by two fifteen, I’m back at work. Dazed, exhausted and a little disoriented from my travels through time.

It’s worth it, Daddy-O. Well worth it.

Seriously Mixed Messages

A close friend travels every year to Mexico with a group of Americans. This group spends several weeks across the border building shelters and facilities for the indigent of whatever town the charity chooses that year.

Admirable. To spend one's free time (or to make free time) in the service of those less fortunate is a valuable gift to both parties. When my daughters asked if they could participate this summer, I applauded their willingness to be sweaty, blistered and generally uncomfortable for the sake of others.

The travel coordinator for this group advises, "There are no laundry facilities. We recommend purchasing multiple inexpensive t-shirts at Wal-Mart to be discarded after wearing."

Let's recap, shall we?

A humanitarian non-profit, committed to bettering the lives of the poor in poverty stricken areas of the world are advocating the patronage of a massive corporation responsible for the closing of countless independent businesses in the U.S. and who routinely contracts with known foreign sweatshops to produce their wearable goods.

Additionally, they suggest throwing away clothing that has been worn one time. One time! Because it's dirty and can't be washed right away! Landfills be damned, let's all put our shirts in the trash! Two kids, times 7 seven days, equals fourteen shirts if I'm not wrong.

Sorry, girls. We might have to tie-dye 'em when you get home, but you will not contribute one single Wal-Mart t-shirt to a Mexican dump. And shame on those who do.