Christmas in February

This weekend was quite a little adventure, I must say. J-Bo and B-Tru came through and the three of us journeyed to Wackytown to support our dear friends, Mz. Moggles and Mr. Miltie in their two-night only Valentine production of A. R. Gurney's Love Letters produced by the Wackytown Hippodome. The production suffered the Curse of Amahl--that is, the mics never worked correctly. But, as Sammy Ray's wife observed, why would you want to mic such golden voices?

When it was all over and J-Bo and B-Tru and I were parting ways, I got that sinking feeling. You know, the kind you get when you suddenly realize that Christmas is over and you have to go back to work. It had been such a special time. A special, crazy time. The performances were world-class and, really, the show meant the absolute world to Miltie, who hadn't been on a stage in more than a decade. It gave him a new lease on life. He started walking every morning. He lost 30 pounds. It lifted him out of his depression. It made him feel important. It even meant a lot to Mz. Moggles, who insisted that she didn't care about it one bit, but by the time I hugged her goodbye, she had tears in her eyes and I could tell that she really missed the theatre, she just didn't know how to find her way back again.

Right now, everything feels like a television show that's about to end. Plot lines are wrapping up. Characters are moving away. Folks are getting married, babies are being born. 'Arrested Development' was canceled. The circle has come back around and I'm facing another production of Fiddler, the show that marked my first real step into pursuing theatre professionally. I almost left the 42nd Floor last Friday, fully intending never to return. I feel like God is taking a vacation from planet Earth and that the few prayers I'm submitting are going straight to voicemail.

It's a transition time--a time of change.

I dreamt last night that my hair began falling out in clumps and seconds later I was bald. And I was so excited about it for some reason. I remember patting my bald scalp and thinking how cool it was. Worst of all, it was one of those dreams that feel really REAL. I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately ran my fingers through my hair, relieved to find it still firmly attached. Nelson looked over at me, his green eyes at half-mast, and meowed sleepily, "Is it time for breakfast?"

In my pre-dawn stupor, I thought about Jung and what he would say about my dream. Except the only thing I know about Jung's dream analysis is snakes represent change and everything else represents sex (ironically enough). But I didn't dream about a snake. I dreamt about a dramatic change in my roguish coiffure.

So I decided Jung was full of crap and instead, I thought about Candie, our receptionist on the 42nd Floor. She recently bobbed her long hair. When I asked her why she did it, she said, "I just had a fight with my husband. I felt like I was moving into a different period in my life--and I needed to express that feeling by cutting my hair. Girls do it all the time."

Am I getting in touch with my feminine side? Is it time for me to make a dramatic change? Or is it just the post-Christmas blues?

There is one thing in particular that I'll take away from my weekend in Wackytown.

Mz. Moggles was very nervous about the show. She was nervous about the whole thing. She wanted Ozarka water. Everything else had too many minerals. She could feel a draft on the stage. A door must be open somewhere. She didn't want to know who was in the audience. It would throw her performance.

Finally, her mother said, "Honey, you're being a diva."

To which Moggles replied, "I'm not being a diva, I'm being superstitious."

Amen, sister.