I Cured Cancer

I cured cancer when I was a young child.  Around the age of seven, I made a huge discovery that changed the world.  Or so I thought. 

As a family, we ate ice cream from those big plastic, cumbersome buckets that went far for our family of five.  One day I grabbed a recycled ice cream bucket that was most likely collecting spider webs out in our garage, and I went on a hunt in our backyard.  That backyard was a safari to me in those days, allowing my imagination to run wild with make-believe scenarios.  There was a beautiful pond in our backyard that actually belonged to my neighbor.  I would pretend I was a character from a Mark Twain novel and go fishing with a pole made from a tree limb and some string.  We would swing from a giant rope attached to the tree on the west side of the property, and it felt like that rope would carry me across the city, like a ride in a giant hot air balloon.  In reality, that rope would only usher me back to the tree from which I came, but in that backyard, I could always pretend I had a lot more courage than I actually possessed.  It was a playground where fancy slides and swings were not needed.  Only my imagination was necessary to create something.  Something like a cure for cancer.

So, I took that empty, cobweb-filled bucket, and I knew I wanted to do something special.  I scooped up dead leaves that had fallen from the trees.  I took small sticks and broke them to make them even smaller, inevitably giving me tiny splinters on my hands.  I grabbed a bit of dirt because somehow, even at that age, I realized that dirt had a myriad of healing properties.  It would be the magical element in my plastic bucket of something special.

I took the ingredients and I began to stir.  Of course I added a little bit of water to the concoction, just to make it spin and swirl.  Projects were always a bit more exciting in those days if it could spin and swirl.  The more I spun, the more hopeful I became. Think of all the people who would be healed!  Think of all the good it would do, and all the tears that would be spared!  But, oh the shame when I realized that I had not written down the recipe for the cure for cancer.  How would all those doctors know since I simply went by looks, rather than counting the ratios of sticks to dirt, and water to dead leaves?  Much to my remorse, I didn’t fight too hard to try the recipe again.  The fun was over, I poured the bucket out into the grass, and I most likely went inside the house for dinnertime.

The sad thing is, of course, I actually did not find the cure for cancer.  I have said goodbye to loved ones due to the devastating disease.  To this day, we all live in hope that a cure will be found.  And for now, hope is a good thing.  Hoping for a miracle is not done in vain.

I say all of this because I believe strongly in imagination.  I believe that children have an amazing capacity to believe in something, even when we as adults may have broken hearts as we watch from the sidelines.  I came from a background that was encouraging and nurturing.  My family let me believe in my dreams, even if heartbreak and painful realization was going to be a part of it.  Because that is life.  There is heartbreak.  There is pain.  But we go on, and somewhere along the way, we see that our hope in something great, or our belief in something that was not there, will one day…exist.

Blue Teeth and Cockney Accents

After Christmas a few years ago, I returned to Tennessee to perform the role of Eliza in “My Fair Lady”. Learning a Cockney accent is hard. There are all these vowels that sounds like someone is chewing a cheeseburger and its difficult as anything I’ve tried. I hate it when actors complain about stuff they have to do, because, in all honesty, live theatre is the best job in the world. Someone pays you to be different characters and wear awesome costumes and sweat under wigs that look horribly unnatural and sing songs. Get over yourself.
But really folks, a Cockney accent is hard. I had a coach help me on the vowel sounds because I was really bad at the accent and she stopped me about every seven words. It got so frustrating after awhile that I just wanted to cry a little bit and look my Cockney-accent coach in the eye and say with a whimpering chin, “Acting is really hard you know, and I think you’re giving me a really hard time about this so I just need you to back off and tell me I’m doing a really good job at this even if I’m not.” But, because I hate it when actors complain about the best job in the world, I stumbled and stammered through the text and got in yelling matches with an imaginary person in the room. I fought with Eliza Doolittle.

I’m convinced it is one of the most complex roles written for a woman in musical theatre, and it felt like every time I spat on my page or stumbled through a line, a perfect version of what Eliza should be was in the room sitting in a chair in the corner laughing at me. She laughed at my feeble attempts and tapped her foot in a perfect rhythm to annoy the crap out of me while she gave weird looks when my vowels were wrong. While I pulled my hair out over a script on my bed, a perfect version of everything I couldn’t be paced my floor back and forth with flawless, annoying ease.

Apparently, when the Cockney accent is done right, spit does, in fact, occur. Spit is disgusting to me, so it took awhile for me to like Cockney. Then, somewhere along the way, I fell in love with the attempt at mastering the accent. Pretty soon, my imaginary Eliza in the room began to get less annoying. She stopped pacing my room. She stopped looming over my shoulder as I read the script. I stopped hearing her perfect Cockney accent after every wrong vowel sound I produced. My accent was not perfect by the time there was an audience, but I accidently spat on an elderly lady in the front row at one point during the run. Success.

In the course of the show I had to put marbles in my mouth. Something about the idea of putting marbles in my mouth made me a bit nervous. The script called for marbles. I requested the props mistress make it solid-color gumballs. I felt safer with gumballs in my mouth as opposed to real, glass marbles. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I told the props mistress I would buy the gum. One night, I forgot to purchase more gum, and only blue gumballs were left in the bottom of the bag. Forced to make a quick decision, the props mistress had to use what was there for the sake of the show once the scene came up. I knew as soon as I saw the marbles on stage that I forgot to replenish the stock of gumballs and this was my punishment. The blue gumballs dyed my teeth, tongue and lips. Bright. Blue. I sang, “I Could Have Danced All Night” with a blue tongue and blue teeth. It was incredibly difficult to sing one of the most recognizable songs in musical theatre history with blue lips and keep myself together. I saw little old ladies turn their heads and say a short statement to the little old lady sitting beside them. I knew they were talking about my blue tongue. And blue teeth. And blue lips. I wanted to stop singing and look at them and say, “It’s hideous, isn’t it?”

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in past shows. I’ve caused a microphone pack to fall out of my underwear and into the toilet five minutes before I had to be on stage. This one time I went on stage during a production of “Chicago” and forgot my bloomers. I had two pairs of tights on with a top that had only a modest amount of fringe. Approximately seven seconds after I walked on the stage it felt as if something was wrong with my costume, then it dawned on me I wasn’t wearing any bloomers. I thought the audience wouldn’t notice until I remembered the part where the dancers literally went into spread eagle position with our backs on the floor. You would think this moment was the most embarrassing of my life. However, once I got safely backstage I fell to the floor in laughter. Not replenishing the stock of gumballs definitely ranks with the flushed mic and the forgotten bloomers.

I love live theatre.

In our last show of My Fair Lady I sobbed during the scene in which Eliza loses her cool with Henry Higgins.  I sobbed because the script calls for it, but I had personal reasons to cry and heave as well. I knew I was going to miss my fights with that imaginary perfect Eliza in the corner of my room. I was headed for Chicago the next day after closing.  My car was packed to the gills out in the parking lot of the theatre while I peddled flowers on the streets of a pretend London.

That last show was a bit out-of-body. Watching Nathan and Bryan sing “Loverly” was short of heart-breaking. Bryan and Nathan were my wine buddies. As far as my extended theatre family, Bob was the best boss a girl could ask for. Pacer was my fellow red-head, and I’ll never forget his forward attempts during the rehearsal of my first show a few years prior to distract me during scenes. Amy shared her couch with me when I needed a home away from actor housing. She called me Sis a lot, and I won’t forget the comfort of that title. Eddie was my older brother with a bald head who worked in the scene shop. I was going to miss our Friday lunches and our senseless gossip sessions. I realize I am introducing these characters at the end of this particular chapter in my life. I realize this is not the way authors introduce characters. But they came into my life in an instant, then it was time to say goodbye. Something in me wanted to stay on a raft in Pacer's pool while sipping spiked lemonade with these amazing people forever.  But adventure sometimes forces you to say goodbye.

Single girl in the city

I moved to Chicago for adventure.  I moved to this great city to discover new people and new opportunities.  I had no idea what was in store for me.  I am an actress with high hopes, but I am very realistic when it comes to paying bills.  I have a day job that I don't hate, but it definitely does not come close to the passion I feel for the stage. 

I am single.  Single is a dirty word for some people, filled with shame and embarrassment.  For me, it means independence. It means freedom to get in the car and go when I want to leave.  You can't leave and be in a relationship.  It gets confusing for the guy, in my experience.  In the past, guys didn't understand my need to get in the car and drive away. 

Commitment scares me.  That's why Chicago is a good fit for me right now.  I don't have to commit to it.  I just have to enjoy it for the time being.  I have relationships with cities more than with men.  I was married to Nashville for a few years, but I decided to get divorced and run off to Chicago to start a relationship here.  So far it has been a rocky road.  Probably because I divorced Nashville.  You can't divorce a city without paying for your infidelity in the next city.  So, here I am.  Trying to navigate this marriage of sorts, wandering if this marriage will work out.  Nashville is always luring me back home, but it may not want me when it sees what I have become.  I have changed with this big city life.  I have become scared of critters and heat, while being comfortable while walking on concrete in the dead of winter. Only time will tell.  I am here to pursue my passion for theatre.  This is all I know for now. And, as far as real human relationships go, I am a single girl in the city.  And I love it.