All That Jazz (part 1)

When people tell you to write the first thing said is always "Write what you know".
And if anyone ever has met me what i know is...*drumroll*....THEATRE. So here is the prologue of the book I'm smack dab in the middle of about the cut throat life of the theatre.


All that Jazz

My dad never sang. He played the piano. There was no sound I was more accustomed to coming home to every day than those black and whites creating a sweet melody. My mother never sang either. She’d hum to the radio in the summer or strum a guitar and accompany my father. We were a musical family but no one ever sang.

The only time I ever heard my father sing was in the car on those Saturday ‘road trips’ to the hardware store or to pick up more milk. He sang theme songs from 1950-era TV shows. Growing up, I was the only kid who knew the words to the Brady Bunch, Green Acres, and Beverly Hillbillies theme songs. I could whistle the Andy Griffith tune in my sleep and knew exactly how to say ‘scre-am’ for the Addams Family. But my absolute favorite was Gilligan’s Island.

Subsequently, when I was eight years old and told I had to audition for a musical the only song that came to mind was, “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…”.

I didn’t know, at eight years old, that that was silly. Or cute. Or unprofessional. I didn’t know, at eight years old, the reason I had to audition was because my mom was concerned that I never wanted for playmates – only books- and she was worried I’d grow up anti-social. I didn’t know that the minimum age for this show was ten and I was only eight. I did not know, at eight years old, that the only reason I made the show was because my mother’s best friend owned the community theatre.

I didn’t know what stage fright was. I didn’t know how it would feel to sing to a full house. I didn’t know the feeling of a warm spotlight on my face or the adrenaline that would run through my veins during every opening night. I didn’t know the tears I would cry every time I would take a final bow for a show. I didn’t know the kinship I’d learn in the wings or the love interests I’d play. I didn’t know then that I was a mezzo or that I could slip in and out of accents of places I’ve never been. I didn’t know the heartbreak I’d feel when I didn’t get the part and the elation I’d feel when I did. 

I didn’t know then.

But I know now.

My Dear Sweet Friend

Hello my dear friend

You have always loved me true

Through thick and thin

And fights and friends

You have always been there

To come and pull me through

Oh my dear sweet friend

Remember when we danced?

Remember when we played make-believe?

Remember when you grew up?

Remember when you forgot me?

I remember still

When we planned our lives to be together

And now we are so far apart

Our plan lies in ruins

With the pile of tattered memories

Oh my dear sweet friend

While we have parted

Which is such a sweet, sweet, sorrow

You have grown up

And I remain a child

You forgot how to laugh

You forgot how to play

You forgot how to pretend

You forgot how to love

And my dear sweet friend,

You forgot me too.

The Worst Job, Ever

 Okay, so you might be sitting there thinking that Glinda, the good witch of the north is a happy little witch who loves helping people out. That’s a lie. That’s basically the biggest lie ever. My name is Melissa. My great-grandmother was Glinda. My mom, my grandma, and I were forced into the family business. This job is much harder then it looks. It’s not all pink dresses and bubbles and singing with munchkins. We have to put up with a lot of bullshit, and dealing with unsatisfied people while wearing high heels. This one time a munchkin bit my ankle and a banshee made me go temporarily deaf and this one time a giant dropped a washing machine on my garage. I’ve had goblins turn me into newts, trees throw apples at me, and flying monkeys poop on me. It’s the worst job ever.

So there I was, lying on my 70’s plaid sofa, watching Days of our Lives with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in a terry cloth bathrobe when a bubble-gram popped in front of my face. It showed this little girl in a blue and white checkered dress, with pigtails curling over the straps with a Karen Terrier close at her heels. She was coming out of a little wooden house that had landed on Susie Green, who was the Wicked Witch of the East. Susie was always a little bit on the less liked side. We were eighth cousins, twice removed, by marriage. Or second cousins, eight times removed, by divorce. I can never remember which. But Susie was always the one to show up to the potluck with brussel sprouts and liver. When we had a bakery auction to save the Lullaby League, she brought a fruitcake. And Susie, by far had the biggest castle but whenever hosting a meeting came around, she would take off on her broom. I felt like she wouldn’t be to dearly missed by anyone except her sister.

I sighed hitting the automatic record button and putting my Chubby Hubby back in the freezer as I padded up the stairs to get dressed. That’s when I saw the dress. You know which one I mean: the light pink dress with tulle and lace frilling out from every direction. I hadn’t needed to wear that dress since Christmas of 1995 and since then I had gained a little weight.

 Twenty minutes later I had support hose busting at the seams up over my thighs and the dress struggling over my hips. I got it over my bust eventually and was digging through my closet looking for my crown and my heels. I remembered I had put them in the attic so I could put my new Prada knock-off’s in my closet. I thumped up stairs digging through boxes as pixie dust floated off everywhere. I pulled out the box labeled Magic Crap.

I dug through half finished potions, old wands, my witch license, my crown and the bubbles I used to travel. I saw my high school year book, Shiz. Ah, memories of a thinner time. Blowing a bubble, I pulled my heels and my crown on as I disappeared into it.

You see bubbles are like offices. In that one spot of soap, my entire work space lived and thrived. I had a secretary munchkin named Lucinda. I had my own nametag and a little plaque outside my office that said I was the number one witch. I even got my own Italian Horse of Another Color as a Christmas bonus last year. Lucinda waddled in and dropped a folder on my desk.

“Another bright day, Luc” I said brightly pouring a big cup of coffee out of my wand.

“Oh yeah, another unconscious little run away ‘Liss.” Lucinda said before waddling back out of the room. I sat down, fighting my way through the tulle to get to my actually desk. I picked up the folder and turned to the first case.

Dorothy Gayle.

Age 12

Unconscious – Must find her own way home

*Ruby Slippers

*Beware of Dog

*Accidently killed Susie Green

I tossed the file in the outbox and opened the closet in my pea sized office where they kept the confiscated liquor and fake watches. I dug through until I found a pair of ruby red slippers that the Wiz had worn at a costume party a few years back. He’d had one too many and ended up singing Tina Turner.

I grabbed the handle to my horse of another color, and got on. I rode to the nearest bubble station and looked at the schedule. There was another bubble to town square in 4 minutes. I sat down and waited. A few minutes later, a few goblins and I boarded the bubble. I rode until I was in the town square. I exited right where the Mayor Melvin McMunch was welcoming Dorothy in song. She was dancing and skipping along giddily with her dog.    

I approached her to give her the deal about the Wicked Witch of the West, who in all reality was very nice, and came over every Sunday night with Susie for a potluck dinner, The wizard, ruby slippers and blah, blah, blah.

“Hello I’m Glinda,” I said reaching out and smiling.

“I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers, ma’am,” she replied apologetically. She had a deep Kansas draw, but she didn’t exactly sound like the brightest Crayon in the box.

“No. Listen to me, Dorothy. I just want to give you these slippers. If you want to get back to the farm in Kansas with Auntie Em and Uncle Henry and Zeke and everyone you should listen to me.”

“WHAT THE HELL LADY!” Are you stalking me?! How do you know about my family or the farm hands or the farm or where I live? CREEPER! STRANGER DANGER!” she shouted punching my stomach and running down the yellow brick road. I doubled over trying to catch the breath I was already holding in. I took a few deep yoga breaths. My life coach, Stan, said that I needed to get a less stressful job. Stan was right. I shrugged not really in the mood to chase such a brat. I zapped the shoes onto Dorothy’s feet. I did what I can and maybe I can make it home for General Hospital, I thought.

I pulled my heels off and walked down the road, which would in about three miles take me to the nearest bubble station. I passed down the road as the munchkins waved good-bye. I walked by a munchkin who was selling lollipops for the Scarecrow College Fund. His voice was so cheery in the merry old Land of Oz. I threw my shoes, picked him up, and punted him into the air.

“I really hate my job,” I muttered.

My Father

Water is a very strange paradox.

When water is inside you – it gives you life. When you are inside water it can take your life just as quickly.

My family has always gone to a beautiful lake in upstate New York, even generations before I was a glimmer in my father’s eye. My dad and I used to swim to across the lake when we were at this lake, much to the chagrin of my mother who insisted that it wasn’t safe and was too far for me.

My dad knew I could do it. So while my mom paddled alongside us in a boat, my dad took long strokes and swift kicks, pausing as often as I needed to.

The rocks we rested at and explored still stand steady in the lake. The crystal, clean, chilled lake water still engulfs the pure scenery. The sun shines brightly over the breathtaking gift Mother Nature gave us, just as strong as it ever has.

The part that is gone is my father. Not that he has passed away, don’t get me wrong. He is still very much alive and in love with my mother as he has been for twenty six years. He is still a wonderful father and husband.

His heart is much slower, his knees much weaker, and the laugh lines from those very moments now define his eyes. His life energy has diminished over a lifetime of two rambunctious and smart-assed children and a home to provide for.

As I thought about many child hood places the only common factor I could come up with was my father. He was the one who took breezy fall afternoons to push us on the merry go round at the park. He was the one who built the playhouse and moved it inside when it got too cold. He is the one who taught me theme songs to shows generations before me on trips back to the grocery store. He is the one who said silly rhymes while he pushed me on the swings, played piano while I tried to conquer third grade math, and baked cookies that would lie on dish towels to cool. He was  the one who taught me how to drive on the high way and held my hand as I cried on my first roller coaster in Disney world. He was the one sitting next to my mother at 38 different opening nights over 12 years.

His life energy may have aged with him. That memories and the people who occupy them may age but the fact that I can still carry them with me are more important.

Where Do I Come From?

I come from the American Dream

I come from a happy family, alike in the same ways

I come from unusual support and love.

I come from white picket fences and golden retrievers without having either.

I come from a glass house.

I come from a glass home that never throws rocks.

I come from Jack and Kathy.

I come from silly paternal pride and sillier maternal mischief.

I come from weekends in my own bed.

I come from a chain reaction started by a bad pick up line at the Peanut Bar.

I come from my father’s persistence and my mother’s womb.

I come from water. Pure and sparkling lake water. 

I come from Adam. And John. And Abby.

I come from seven letters manipulated into four that will and forever label me.

I come from the good part of an impoverished city.

I come from the roles I never got.

I come from the warmth of the spotlight.

I come for the resin that keeps my dance shoes rooted.

 I come from time periods much before I can even imagine.

I come from the smell of the theatre.

I come from Ireland, Russia, England, the American South and Long Island (but only when it suits me)

I come from long hours of pretending to be someone else.

I come from the final bow and the tears that bring us together.

I come from the two filled seats on opening night and the flowers that wilt in the days after.

I come from my parents.

I come from the theatre.

I am grounded and growing in their love for me and my love for them.