Crickets

For the last two years, I've had a roommate. I'd never had one before moving to Nashville; not when I moved out of my parents' house and not when I went to college. Never wanted one. I lived alone for 13 years and I liked it. Two years ago, though, I moved from small-town rental homes to big-city apartments that I couldn't afford alone. A friend and co-worker was looking for someone to split the rent and a roommate was born.

I'm still not crazy about the idea, but if I have to share my space, I'd be hard-pressed to find an easier person to share with outside of a romantic relationship. Joseph and I keep to ourselves and our own habits; neither of us is too noisy, too social, or too lazy to keep a common room clean. We keep different hours -- quietly -- and we rarely cross paths. It's as close to living alone as one can get without actually living alone, and after doing just that for more than a decade, it's just what I hoped for. That's why it is so surprising to me that the absolute stillness of the San Diego apartment unnerves me.

I never wanted a roommate, but I now realize the comfort of having one. It's not in the sound of a tapping keyboard, the smell of a broiling bratwurst, or the sight of an abandoned notepad. It has nothing to do with taste or touch. It's failing to hear the ticking of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the settling of the walls. It's turning off the TV but leaving on the kitchen light. It's knowing that you're not alone. And that's worth something.

Ein minuten, Oscar!

This wasn't my best Oscar showing to date, but it was enough to win the pool: 17 of 24 correct. On my ballot, I selected Million Dollar Baby for every prize that should indicate a Best Picture but voted against it in that category because the Producers' Guild, which awarded The Aviator, is rarely wrong. So, I missed in that category and a few of the smaller ones, but hit in enough categories to win contests in both California and Tennessee. A small consolation for a night spent watching the show alone over a baked potato.

I'd only seen three of the films nominated: two of them computer-animated (Shrek 2 and The Incredibles) and the third (Harry Potter) benefited, I'm sure, by CGI . The only lead actors I saw on film this year were in their teens. I've got to get out more.

What was particularly interesting about the night, then, was not my 10th win in 11 years of betting on movies I hadn't seen, nor was it stellar snacking, chatting, or catching-up. It was TIME. It's an odd thing, coming from the Central time zone, to see an Oscar presentation end before 11:00; but in the Pacific time zone, it ended before 9:00. At 8:40 in Nashville, folks were checking their votes for Short Film; at the same time here, the awards were over.

Being in the same time zone as the Kodak Theatre puts a new perspective on the post-Oscar parties that are annual news. After the show in Nashville, viewers with day jobs are dragging their up-til-11 butts to bed. IF they bothered to watch the whole show. In San Diego, the evening has barely begun. Of course there's time for the celebs to party after the show! There's still time for a late date, time to catch a movie, time to watch CSI. Hell, there's time to drive to Los Angeles from here before 11 o'clock.

With all this post-Oscar free time how can I, so close to Hollywood, possibly resist updating my blog? Woo-hoo! I'm livin' life in the fast lane out here, buddy. Just try to stop me from making a pot of coffee!

Oscar Night

Each year I host an Oscar party. A select group of close friends gathers at my house for an evening of snacking, chatting, betting, and catching-up. For some of us, getting together during the year is difficult, so the Academy decides for us the one night a year that we are duty-bound to meet. This year, we are not meeting. Because I'm not there.

In truth, I'm the only one who really cares about the awards. Because (sorry, guys) I'm the only one who consistently wins the pot. The others come to humor me and enjoy what has become a tradition.

So, while I'm sitting alone in a San Diego apartment tonight, checking off ballots my castmates graciously filled at my request, I will be thinking of Chris and Kenny -- my rocks -- and wishing I was home for one night.

In their honor, a few outside bets:

• Chris will watch the awards but will not make his famous chicken wings for the event.
• Kenny will watch only if bidden by another friend, answering their invite with "oh, is that on tonight???" Popcorn will be involved.
• I will win the pool among my cast, but won't be satisfied. My nearest opponent won't be in the room cheering on their vote. Where's the competition in that?

Meanwhile, this is the closest to the red carpet I've ever been. Happy Oscar to all, and to all a Good Night!

Two Weeks to Open

There’s an interesting phenomenon that occurs within a 6-week rehearsal process. When a month or more stretches ahead, there is invariably a lackadaisical attitude among the cast which knuckles down only when the performers start to fear appearing in front of an audience unprepared. The newfound intensity changes and ups the game, and it always comes within the last 2 weeks of rehearsal. So it’s interesting to note that many professional theatres only rehearse for two weeks. For unpaid players, the 6-8 hours a day required to mount a show in two weeks would be difficult to manage in conjunction with their paid work, so in order to amass stage time more rehearsal days – and days off – are needed. One would like to think that having an additional 4 weeks to prepare a show would be a boon, but there are two powerful players absent in those first 4 weeks: urgency and intensity. Being a number cruncher at heart, I decided to do the math. How would the final two weeks of rehearsal for a community show – when the urgency is finally palpable – compare to a professional 2-week rehearsal schedule?

After two weeks of 6-hour days, performers at Nashville’s Barn Dinner Theatre will have put roughly 86 hours of stage time into a performance before it is seen by the public -- every one of those hours infused with “we open in two weeks” intensity. In the final two weeks of rehearsal at OnStage Playhouse, performers will only put in 48 hours of urgency-infused stage time before the production is seen. The difference is between one full-time work week and two. Oh! What a difference that second full throttle week would make!

Perhaps, with the hours we've spent getting to this point, our final 48 hours will be productive enough to narrow the gap. Ultimately, the hours that count most are the ones in which getting it right is most important to the actor -- when the least time remains to fix what is wrong. We're getting there, right on schedule. If this show were being produced at The Barn with plans to open March 11th, the actors would be meeting today to receive scripts for their first read-through.

It's interesting to note, too, that if The Barn had started rehearsals for this show on the same day that OnStage did, it would be in its 3rd week of performance rather than 5th week of rehearsal, scheduled to close on March 12th rather than open on March 11th. However it plays, if I get to stay in Olive Madison’s apartment with the girls until April 9th rather than tear it down on March 12th, I’m all for it!

It's Alarming

I crawled out of bed at around 8:30 this morning -- something that hasn’t ceased to amaze me in the month I’ve been here. Instead of jet-lagging its way through the time adjustment, my body clock has remained true to its own settings. In Nashville, I usually rise around 10 or 10:30. Here, it’s 8 or 8:30. Maybe if I jumped another couple of time zones west and I’ll be able to get up at 6 or 6:30 and work a day job. Of course, I’m not sure in which country I’d be living at that point. Right now I’m envisioning a small island in shark-infested waters. And it's not hiring. But I digress….

Within minutes of my crawling out of bed, the smoke alarm sounds. I check the apartment – all clear – then grab a chair so that I can check the alarm battery. As I climb up to look, I realize the alarm isn’t the sound’s source, another small device near it is. On this device is a simple but effective drawing: a stick figure in motion down a staircase away from a fire. Evacuate. I don’t see or smell smoke when I open the apartment door, but identical devices are shouting and blinking across the building. I grab a pair of shoes, my keys, and a jacket before I exit the building wearing a pair of men’s plaid pajama pants, a T-shirt that’s two sizes too big, and an ankle brace. My hair isn’t combed, my teeth aren’t brushed, and my face – dear God – hasn’t been painted. I look like a street urchin, but I can’t be the only bed-headed, pajama-wearer disturbed by this alarm… can I?

As I make my way to ground level, I expect a small crowd of worried residents to be gathering, questioning where the fire could be, how much damage it will do, and how quickly we’ll be allowed back in; but there’s no one outside. A nearby building is also blinking and screeching. The two aren’t connected, so it’s probably a false alarm, but, better safe that sorry; I wait for the all-clear. Only two people join me in the courtyard before the alarm is quieted. They are both men and both dressed, so when I say “join me in the courtyard” I mean “exit the building to a safe place a good 100 yards away from me.”

I often wonder just what the people who actually live in this apartment complex do for a living. Whatever it is, it pays. A lot. As I stand in a light rain watching them leave for work in tailored suits, I wonder what they think about the unkempt girl standing there in her jammies and a leather jacket. No one makes eye-contact. Maybe they think I’m going to ask for their spare change. I feel conspicuous, embarrassed, not being showered and shaved and headed to work until I realize that these well-kempt folks are probably headed to a 16-hour work day to afford an apartment they’ll spend very little waking time in. As soon as the alarm stops, I go upstairs, start a pot of coffee, and put my feet up. I think I’ll watch Columbo. In my jammies.

Magic Wand

A few years ago, I learned to eat fire. It's not a skill that one USES often, but it is a skill that I have. I learned it backstage during a production of Forever Plaid, in which one of the actors performs the trick. He'd done it before, but not in years. He asked for refresher instruction and I was there when it came. I watched carefully and later tried it myself. It's impressive to watch, but not so hard to do. The only thing you need is a healthy respect for fire. Oh, and the wand.

At the time, with permission, I borrowed that performer's wand to try the trick. Yes, it goes into your mouth, but it goes in ON FIRE, so wand-swapping doesn't create a lot of bacterial concern. Still, it's a good idea to have your own wand if you want to practice or perform the trick. Which is why, not having one, I haven't practiced or performed it in years. Or, I should say, "hadn't." I made a wand this weekend.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I'd joked a day earlier that I would make one, but when I saw all the necessary materials in a drug store the next day, I had to buy them. It was a sign.

Having been a borrower, I'd never made my own wand. It took a little time to get the size just right. My wand is not pretty, but it is effective. My father watched cautiously as I lit it the first few times, producing flames far too large to put near my face. In time, with a little less fuel, I got a flame I could eat. Mmm, mmm, good.

As a performer, one likes to keep tabs on one's "special skills," but now that I'm assured I can still do the trick and have sufficiently unnerved my father, I'm not sure what I'll do with the wand. Dad confirms that it's probably not a good idea to perform that one in front of my impressionable nieces, coming to visit Disneyland in April. But my mother hasn't seen the trick yet. I'll keep the wand handy for her next visit.

It Sometimes Rains in Southern California

About a week ago, I ran across an interesting report which determined which US city had the most weather variety. In a study of 277 cities, San Diego ranked 276 -- almost no variety. I mention this because it has been raining this week. A slow, drizzling, blah "Seattle" rain, but rain. To a Nashvillian, this is nothing -- I could wipe my parking spot clean with a single sheet of Bounty -- but to San Diegans, who don't see much of the wet stuff, this is a deluge.

This bout of rain began in the wee hours before sunrise Friday. By mid-day, there had been over 60 traffic accidents. Without measurable accumulation, I found this laughable... until I heard there were fatalities. Fatalities? In THIS??? So I did a little research. Precipitation data tells me that Nashville sees more rain each month than San Diego accumulates from April to October. Nashville averages roughly 4 inches of rain per month; San Diego averages not quite 10 inches per YEAR. San Diegans don't have much opportunity to hone their wet-weather driving skills, and when the opportunity comes, it seems, they avoid the road if at all possible. The way Nashvillians avoid the road during a barely measurable snowfall. To each his own precipitation phobia.

However, if I cannot laugh at that San Diegan inability to drive in rain, I can laugh at their inability to walk in it. One drop and they scurry for cover. Hey kids, it won't burn you and you're not going to melt! There. I feel better now.

Caution: Hot Coffee

I just returned home from a cast meeting and Trivial Pursuit game (research) held at a local coffee shop near the University. (Which university, I don't know). I was cleaning out my paper cup so that I, in my anal and pack-ratty way, could keep the logo proclaiming that I'd been to Diedrich Coffee when I saw written in small letters along the bottom of the cup -- in quotes -- "Of Course it's Hot". Next to that, there's a smiley face. Gotta love it.

Disney Gras

I received an e-mail from my mother today, detailing an upcoming trip. You see, my mother has wanted to go to Disneyland since she was five years old, watching the building process on television. For years, she entered every contest that had a trip to Disneyland as its prize, but never won. Now, my mother has grandchildren older than she was then, and the park is celebrating its 50th anniversary. By gawrsh, she's going!

The original plan included my parents, my brother, his wife, and their four girls. I would not join them. When my stay in California was extended through mid-April, however, I was added to the party. But do I want to go?

My problem is not with Disney or Disneyland. My lack of interest springs from the same well as my disinterest in Mardi Gras: throngs of noisy, pushy people. And, as if adults aren't noisy and pushy enough en masse, at Disneyland there will be kids, too! Loads of them. Some of them related to me, and thereby allowed to tug, jump, and scream in my vicinity. I need an aspirin just thinking about it.

Yet, for all my reason NOT to go, there is one compelling reason to do it: it's a once in a lifetime opportunity. My mother waited 50 years for a trip to Disneyland and I'm being handed one on a platter. "Any traveler worth her salt...." I know I'll never pursue this on my own dime, so why not take a look-see? You never know... I might just enjoy myself.

So long, Marlboro ma'am

When I packed my carry-on for this trip, I made a decision: I would not pack my cigarettes. If I wanted them when I got to California, I would buy a pack there. I didn't consider it a conscious decision to quit, but I knew that buying that pack would be difficult. For two weeks, my parents would be with me, sharing evening use of a rental car that would not be available to my mother and I during the day. Wherever the car went at night, we all went, so a week flew by before I had the opportunity to drive alone and, if I chose, to stop for cigarettes. I didn't. At the end of two weeks, my parents returned to Tennessee without me, leaving me sole use of the car and ample opportunity to make that stop. I still haven't. I've been smoke-free for one month today.

...It'll Last Longer

I am an avid photographer when I am traveling. I take pictures of EVERYTHING. But I have very few to show for it.

I don't travel a lot, but I have had some few opportunities, and on each trip I've spent roughly the GNP of Rwanda on film and development. Of the hundreds of shots I take, I get only a handful of prints to keep. I'm jinxed.

I went to New York in the late 80's. Disc cameras were the thing at the time, and they were convenient to pack: flat, compact, and cheap enough to replace if broken or lost. If you're aware it's broken. Soon after my arrival, it seems, the advance system failed. Every picture was exposed to the same film frame but the shot counter was still going strong, so I dutifully changed disc after disc.... Only one produced prints.

In the early 90's I went to Panama City Beach, Florida. I took my manual Canon camera. Less convenient to pack and carry, but more reliable. I had taken some photography classes and had big ideas about swapping black and white film with color. I knew the tricks -- how to change rolls and advance with the lens cap on to the next available frame -- but when I somehow lost track of which roll was which, I was advancing like a pro to frame 13 on a roll that had already been exposed 24 times. I have a number of interesting double-exposed color slides from that trip -- and no idea whatsoever what happened to the black and white roll.

In the mid-90's I went to a conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. I abandoned my Canon for a packable little point-and-shoot-with-zoom number. On the first night, after I placed it on the banquet table where we would be eating a lavish dinner, someone to my right sent the camera flying with one uncontrolled motion. It would ultimately survive, but the broken battery case put the camera on the DL until I returned home. I continued on with a handful of disposables, which did not respond kindly to the number of low-light evening events we enjoyed after day conferences. Only a daytime shot of the Scottsdale Princess resort remains.

In the late 90's I went to Seattle with two cameras. I packed one (which flavor I don't remember) and purchased a cheapo point-and-shoot at the airport because I was intrigued with the panoramic option. I relied heavily on the one I'd packed as I ran rolls and rolls of film through both, but in the end the only prints I have to show for that trip are roughly 4x10 in scale.

Coming to San Diego, I didn't bother to pack a camera. Now I have three: the $20 manual I bought early in the trip, the point-and-shoot-with-zoom I bought when I knew I'd be staying, and the disposable that is serving as emergency backup. If all else fails, there's also a digital camera available to me, but going digital would be my last resort. I'm a purist. I want every picture I won't have of this trip to be on film.

Mardi Gras

I am not a party-goer. Nothing... NOTHING... about the idea of Mardi Gras appeals to me. Large crowds, drunks, cheap women, cheap beads, loud music, loud voices, random noise, pushing, vomiting, litter... yuck! Neither am I particularly devout; the beginning of Lent is not marked on my calendar by way of sin or virtue. So, when I was informed on February 9th (Ash Wednesday) that San Diego had hosted one of the country's Top 10 Mardi Gras celebrations the day before (Fat Tuesday), I was surprised to realize I was a bit disappointed that I'd missed it. Okay, so I have absolutely no interest in it. So what! Any traveler worth her salt, finding herself within mere miles of a Top 10 ANYTHING, would check it out. This salt-free traveler, however, was home, oblivious, and one step away from frozen pizza and Hee Haw reruns. Or not. But you get my point. At least I had no trouble getting out of bed Wednesday morning... and I wasn't surprised by a sobering stranger waking next to me. Points for me. I think.

Has it really been a month... already?

Welcome to my travel-blog. On January 16th, I flew from Nashville to San Diego for a two-week visit; on the 17th, I auditioned for a role in The Odd Couple (female); and on the 18th I accepted the role of Olive Madison, thereby extending my California stay. These are a few things I've noticed so far.

Every traveler has "bad driver" stories that admonish every resident of the city they've recently visited. I'll resist the generalization and simply say that, in San Diego, a ridiculous percentage of drivers practice an unnecessary aggressiveness. That, and San Diegans may not, by law it seems, travel more than 5 miles in silence. Should there BE silence, someone is randomly selected to honk at absolutely nothing. I've yet to figure out the election process.

"It never rains in Southern California" is a myth.

Clothes shopping is usually a skinny girl's sport. Not in San Diego. Here, anyone, regardless of size, can and will squeeze into spandex without shame. For me, the sport became trying to find something... anything... made without Lycra.

I hate to shop. Always have. Particularly for clothes. Because shopping for clothes is nothing but an ego-bashing for anyone larger than a size 4. Like me. Like MOST women. But... I'd packed a carry-on bag for a two-week visit and was now going to be staying for three months. I didn't want to shop, but I had to.

In San Diego's clothing Mecca, Fashion Valley, I was nearly reduced to tears several times as items claiming to be my size clung expertly to exactly the parts of me that would benefit the least from the attention. As I walked despondently from one shop to another, I came to realize that I seemed to be the only girl at the mall who had a problem with showing her curves. The less-than-flattering ones. Well, I envy the ego that isn't disturbed by the display, but it's not for me. Eventually, I did find one store that allowed for my don't-wrap-me-in-Saran existence. JCPenney. If only I'd found it a few purchases earlier....

And with that, I'll end this post. Other thoughts I plan to expound on soon: my new-found love of the DVR and cable internet access, hoping to beat my traveling camera jinx, and a Fat Tuesday discovery that is just TYPICAL.