Hello, hello...
I know it has been some time since I last wrote. I also know about all the promises of weekly updates and of infusing these pages with juicy baggage details and adventures.
But, alas, I have discovered that "intention" is nothing more than my middle name.
After the shows in New Mexico, I decided to give the bags a break.
We were all tired and a little dusty.
The original idea was to spend some time in the desert. To bask on sun-baked rocks....the garment bag spread out like a lizard. But, it was not to be.
I felt a pull towards home. I needed to return to the South. I needed cheese grits and some time with my daughter.
I also needed to lick some wounds. Don't ask. Just know that wide-eyed and bushy-tailed often gets you caught in the middle of the road....under a semi.
I drove cross-country to North Carolina where I spent a lot of time in a rocking chair pondering this whole, crazy summer.
Truth is, I was a little depressed. Things had been tough; not at all the spiritual journey I had been expecting. I felt weighed down. Perhaps it was time to end the tour. Stay put. Go back to work. Put the bags in the garage.
I called my friend in Oklahoma City. The friend whose non-profit organization, Eden (a group that promotes and supports dreams) was bringing the show to town in one short week.
"I can't do this", I said.
"I'm tired. I'm defeated. This hasn't turned out like I thought"...
And then there was DEAD SILENCE as she scooped up my self-pity, only to roll it into a sticky ball, and throw it back in my face.
"Need I remind you I am bringing in your show because you are an inspiration?! THIS is NOT inspirational at all".
Point well taken. It stuck hard.
So.
I snuggled with my daughter a little bit longer, ate ample amounts of cheese-grits, washed them down with some sweet tea, and picked myself up by the boot straps.
I tied down the baggage, oiled the trailer wheels and gave myself a good talking to.
I then headed off to finish what I started: bringing the baggage to others.
As I drove up the gauntlet in Knoxville, across the bridge in Memphis, over the red-rocked hills of Arkansas and onto the plains of Oklahoma, I felt my resolve strengthen with each mile-post.
No one ever said this would be easy. Or that I wouldn't pick up more bags along the way.
In life, we just have to drive on...with, possibly, a little more junk in the trunk than before.
Love, M
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
In Las Cruces
Performing. More coming soon...
Just know the Heathen is in GREAT light here.
While Marlene is a little scared of the lights here.
They require a cherry picker.
But the view is beautiful. The baggage is happy. And all is well.
Just know the Heathen is in GREAT light here.
While Marlene is a little scared of the lights here.
They require a cherry picker.
But the view is beautiful. The baggage is happy. And all is well.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Did You Remember to Bring the Tarp?
We left Denver on Tuesday morning heading South on I-25 650 miles straight on to Las Cruces, New Mexico.
Little Suzy, as we have named the baggage trailer, handled herself beautifully, manuevering the desert plains like a champ.
The hot New Mexico sun beat down on the baggage and the Suby like dry blessings from above.
6 hours into the drive...
Wake Up Little Suzy!
There's a storm ahead.
It was about the time we saw the scene above, that Marlene turned to me and asked...
"Did you remember the tarp"?
...Maybe...I said.
Maybe being the universal other word for NO.
All was "good" until the lightning. Thick bolts flashing up from the plains. Beckoning the Suby to...come a little closer.
We both thought of the little orange flag sticking up from the baggage. The one that says, "Hey don't hit this" to cars...thinking it might be a different message altogether to something of the more electric variety.
The Heathen who insisted on riding inside the car (we slid her neatly across the roof) says under her breath, "Remember. I am not a lightning rod".
We hold our breath.
And drive on.
We stop 2 hours north of Las Cruces now too late (and too shaken) to arrive at our set destination on time.
Because Soccorro, New Mexico was the only town that had hotel billboards on I-25 (as opposed to "Stop at Next Exit to Purchase a Horse"), this is where we landed.
Once checked into the Rodeway Inn, the Heathen got out and stretched her fishnets.
I dried off the baggage with hotel washcloths and hitched it under the eaves for the night.
We all sighed.
And turned in.
And dreamt of arks.
Little Suzy, as we have named the baggage trailer, handled herself beautifully, manuevering the desert plains like a champ.
The hot New Mexico sun beat down on the baggage and the Suby like dry blessings from above.
6 hours into the drive...
Wake Up Little Suzy!
There's a storm ahead.
It was about the time we saw the scene above, that Marlene turned to me and asked...
"Did you remember the tarp"?
...Maybe...I said.
Maybe being the universal other word for NO.
All was "good" until the lightning. Thick bolts flashing up from the plains. Beckoning the Suby to...come a little closer.
We both thought of the little orange flag sticking up from the baggage. The one that says, "Hey don't hit this" to cars...thinking it might be a different message altogether to something of the more electric variety.
The Heathen who insisted on riding inside the car (we slid her neatly across the roof) says under her breath, "Remember. I am not a lightning rod".
We hold our breath.
And drive on.
We stop 2 hours north of Las Cruces now too late (and too shaken) to arrive at our set destination on time.
Because Soccorro, New Mexico was the only town that had hotel billboards on I-25 (as opposed to "Stop at Next Exit to Purchase a Horse"), this is where we landed.
Once checked into the Rodeway Inn, the Heathen got out and stretched her fishnets.
I dried off the baggage with hotel washcloths and hitched it under the eaves for the night.
We all sighed.
And turned in.
And dreamt of arks.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The World's Second Smallest (Baggage) Trailer
How does one prepare for a trip across county with 1000 lbs of baggage and a tiny Subaru?
By finding the perfect trailer, of course.
The quest began months ago.
In the dark of winter, holed up in my little chalet (actually, it was a trailer, itself) in the wilds of Breckenridge, I spent many-a-frosty evening in the dark caverns of Craig's List: relentlessly foraging the unforgiving tunnels of clue-lessness.
Without the perfect trailer...I am NOTHING.
But, I also...knew nothing.
A blonde who barely passed high school algebra, what did I know about the laws of physics??
Surely, I can pull a 25 foot flatbed behind me...it rolls, right?
My Subaru manual said it could only pull 1500 lbs.
I might as well have been figuring out how many sticks of wrigley's it would take to reach the moon.
None of the trailers I looked at knew how much they weighed. Pshaw! Wouldn't it be great if we could all say that?
The manual also said I would need to get hitched.
(Insert screaming and slamming manual closed here)
If you know me, you know my feelings about that word.
Based on phone calls with every farmer and good ol' boy trying to unload a trailer from Fairplay to Frankfurt...one ought to know the empty weight of any trailer...without asking.
And getting hitched was as simple as calling Uhaul.
Really...?
This drove me on through mutliple nights of no sleep and even more wine bottles.
Soon, however. I realized.
I was using the trailer as an excuse to drink.
Something had to change.
I decided to immerse myself into the world of trailers. To conquer something, one must know it, completely.
I bellied up to bars called JJ's on rural routes called CR 669 and 1/2.
Made small talk with the regulars.
"If you were to pull, say 1000 pounds of baggage, across the country in a Subaru, you know, just by chance, what type of trailer would you use"?
Ol' Grizzly Bob would scratch his chin, toss back another shot of jager, think deeply...
"Dang. That's a lot of baggage".
I drove crooked backroads in towns like Berthoud, Colorado. Seeking answers.
Pulled over in crooked gravel lots. Went into crooked trailer yards.
Scene: 5 crooked men sitting at 5 crooked desks. Crooked legs kicked up over rounded bellies in crooked boots. Licking fried chicken off crooked fingers. Crooked door swings open. Dust blows in off the plains. There stands a blonde, city girl...dumb as a crooked post...and lookin' for a trailer.
Ka-CHING!!!
Straight as an arrow they'd sit.
They had me convinced I could take out a second mortgage (or in my case...a first) to purchase one of their beauties.
But, it fell through when I found out they couldn't take baggage as a down payment.
Then, I found it. Back in the caverns of Craig's List.
She was a gem. Tiny as a sidewalk square, The World's Smallest Trailer. Must weigh less than 1500 lbs and was right in my budget of...$100.
The World's Smallest Trailer
Su-weet.
I drove to the Boulder turnpike. To an avacado green house inhabited by motorcycles and made my purchase.
Turns out the trailer had been used to tote the 1000 lb German Shepard, who was snarling at me from under the thing, across the country.
Perfect. My baggage has been known to growl.
Satisfied. I went to bed with a smile on my face and dreamed of happy, dancing baggage trailers.
Until. The DMV.
Turns out you can't register "hot trailers" in the state of Colorado. You know...ones with the vin number scratched off that have been reported as stolen.
Oh.
Really...??
Back to the avacado green house to demand back my whopping $100.
Turns out, the dog had already eaten the check. So, we were good.
Back to the caverns.
Where I found: The World's Second Smallest Trailer.
A little more expensive..this bad boy set me back $175.
But, aint he adorable?
The World's Second Smallest Trailer
I drove to the suburbs of Littleton. To a quaint little house. With flowers and trees and lawn sprinklers. No German Shepards. Just a little yappy dog who peed on the trailer as I looked it over.
I smiled as I ran my fingers over the shiny VIN number.
And said.
You did good, kid. You did good.
It was love at first sight.
And we got hitched immdediately.
Now, to figure out how he's gonna carry ALL that baggage. Sigh.
By finding the perfect trailer, of course.
The quest began months ago.
In the dark of winter, holed up in my little chalet (actually, it was a trailer, itself) in the wilds of Breckenridge, I spent many-a-frosty evening in the dark caverns of Craig's List: relentlessly foraging the unforgiving tunnels of clue-lessness.
Without the perfect trailer...I am NOTHING.
But, I also...knew nothing.
A blonde who barely passed high school algebra, what did I know about the laws of physics??
Surely, I can pull a 25 foot flatbed behind me...it rolls, right?
My Subaru manual said it could only pull 1500 lbs.
I might as well have been figuring out how many sticks of wrigley's it would take to reach the moon.
None of the trailers I looked at knew how much they weighed. Pshaw! Wouldn't it be great if we could all say that?
The manual also said I would need to get hitched.
(Insert screaming and slamming manual closed here)
If you know me, you know my feelings about that word.
Based on phone calls with every farmer and good ol' boy trying to unload a trailer from Fairplay to Frankfurt...one ought to know the empty weight of any trailer...without asking.
And getting hitched was as simple as calling Uhaul.
Really...?
This drove me on through mutliple nights of no sleep and even more wine bottles.
Soon, however. I realized.
I was using the trailer as an excuse to drink.
Something had to change.
I decided to immerse myself into the world of trailers. To conquer something, one must know it, completely.
I bellied up to bars called JJ's on rural routes called CR 669 and 1/2.
Made small talk with the regulars.
"If you were to pull, say 1000 pounds of baggage, across the country in a Subaru, you know, just by chance, what type of trailer would you use"?
Ol' Grizzly Bob would scratch his chin, toss back another shot of jager, think deeply...
"Dang. That's a lot of baggage".
I drove crooked backroads in towns like Berthoud, Colorado. Seeking answers.
Pulled over in crooked gravel lots. Went into crooked trailer yards.
Scene: 5 crooked men sitting at 5 crooked desks. Crooked legs kicked up over rounded bellies in crooked boots. Licking fried chicken off crooked fingers. Crooked door swings open. Dust blows in off the plains. There stands a blonde, city girl...dumb as a crooked post...and lookin' for a trailer.
Ka-CHING!!!
Straight as an arrow they'd sit.
They had me convinced I could take out a second mortgage (or in my case...a first) to purchase one of their beauties.
But, it fell through when I found out they couldn't take baggage as a down payment.
Then, I found it. Back in the caverns of Craig's List.
She was a gem. Tiny as a sidewalk square, The World's Smallest Trailer. Must weigh less than 1500 lbs and was right in my budget of...$100.
The World's Smallest Trailer
Su-weet.
I drove to the Boulder turnpike. To an avacado green house inhabited by motorcycles and made my purchase.
Turns out the trailer had been used to tote the 1000 lb German Shepard, who was snarling at me from under the thing, across the country.
Perfect. My baggage has been known to growl.
Satisfied. I went to bed with a smile on my face and dreamed of happy, dancing baggage trailers.
Until. The DMV.
Turns out you can't register "hot trailers" in the state of Colorado. You know...ones with the vin number scratched off that have been reported as stolen.
Oh.
Really...??
Back to the avacado green house to demand back my whopping $100.
Turns out, the dog had already eaten the check. So, we were good.
Back to the caverns.
Where I found: The World's Second Smallest Trailer.
A little more expensive..this bad boy set me back $175.
But, aint he adorable?
The World's Second Smallest Trailer
I drove to the suburbs of Littleton. To a quaint little house. With flowers and trees and lawn sprinklers. No German Shepards. Just a little yappy dog who peed on the trailer as I looked it over.
I smiled as I ran my fingers over the shiny VIN number.
And said.
You did good, kid. You did good.
It was love at first sight.
And we got hitched immdediately.
Now, to figure out how he's gonna carry ALL that baggage. Sigh.
Review by David Marlowe
"Ms. Funkhouser is one of the brightest stars currently rising on the horizon of Colorado regional theatre. Go and see this superb new talent."-David Marlowe, Out Front
Murphy Funkhouser and Christopher Willard prove to be an unbeatable combination in the creation of “Crazy Bag,”the one-woman-show over at Vintage Theatre that is written and performed by Ms. Funkhouser. Christopher Willard directs the piece with his usual professional panache. Willard is that theatre genius whose work Denver theatre goers get to see all too infrequently.
Recently he decided to direct this script penned by Murphy Funkhouser. Willard’s direction of “Crazy Bag,” allows the actor/playwright’s memories and issues to live with vibrant urgency. The play itself has a good deal of comic material at its beginning, and then takes on a more serious tone near the end.
The adorable Murphy Funkhouser is one of the most expressive and charismatic actors you will ever see. She has a smile that lights up the room! Her comic timing is superb. The playwright envisions herself as a woman with “baggage.” Emotional baggage! We have all got it! The way she deals with it is through humor … and a few tears. So Mr. Willard has assembled a wide array of suitcases, valises and well, crazy bags which surround the central character. Their contents point to issues and memories of the past. There are a couple of moments in the second half of the show which get a little heavy. You will see what I mean when you get there. One wishes for a bit more of the comic to lift the viewer after one feels the devastation of the issues lying hidden in the bigger trunks.
Ms. Funkhouser is one of the brightest stars currently rising on the horizon of Colorado regional theatre. Go and see this superb new talent. The show has already been extended once. Don’t miss it.
Murphy Funkhouser and Christopher Willard prove to be an unbeatable combination in the creation of “Crazy Bag,”the one-woman-show over at Vintage Theatre that is written and performed by Ms. Funkhouser. Christopher Willard directs the piece with his usual professional panache. Willard is that theatre genius whose work Denver theatre goers get to see all too infrequently.
Recently he decided to direct this script penned by Murphy Funkhouser. Willard’s direction of “Crazy Bag,” allows the actor/playwright’s memories and issues to live with vibrant urgency. The play itself has a good deal of comic material at its beginning, and then takes on a more serious tone near the end.
The adorable Murphy Funkhouser is one of the most expressive and charismatic actors you will ever see. She has a smile that lights up the room! Her comic timing is superb. The playwright envisions herself as a woman with “baggage.” Emotional baggage! We have all got it! The way she deals with it is through humor … and a few tears. So Mr. Willard has assembled a wide array of suitcases, valises and well, crazy bags which surround the central character. Their contents point to issues and memories of the past. There are a couple of moments in the second half of the show which get a little heavy. You will see what I mean when you get there. One wishes for a bit more of the comic to lift the viewer after one feels the devastation of the issues lying hidden in the bigger trunks.
Ms. Funkhouser is one of the brightest stars currently rising on the horizon of Colorado regional theatre. Go and see this superb new talent. The show has already been extended once. Don’t miss it.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
3 STARS- Review-Denver Post
"The particulars of Funkhouser's life story aren't what make Funkhouser particularly remarkable. She's a minister's daughter who got kicked out of Bible college. She partied too hard, lived out of her car, got pregnant and straightened herself out. Not an altogether uncommon tale. Life can be a very self-destructive undertaking.
It's the young woman who emerged from all that — (adorably) damaged and yet ferociously ebullient. It's also that Funkhouser is a solid writer and expert comedian who knows how to pen and pack a punch line". -John Moore, Denver Post
It's the young woman who emerged from all that — (adorably) damaged and yet ferociously ebullient. It's also that Funkhouser is a solid writer and expert comedian who knows how to pen and pack a punch line". -John Moore, Denver Post
Monday, June 23, 2008
Side Note to Denver: Marketing Pride Day (or...having no pride when it comes to selling tickets)
Yesterday, My girlfriend, Jackie and I donned fishnets, black mini-skirts, covered ourselves in "Junk in the Trunk" bumperstickers and headed down to join the Denver Pride Parade.
Our mission? BAGGAGE PRIDE, baby!
Meaning: To sell more than a few tickets to the show.
In 95 degree weather we pounded the streets of Denver handing out fliers (ok, so we bribed the crowd to take them by offering free spray downs with water).
We worked the crowd. We joined in the fun. We had photos taken with fabulous boys in sequins. And covered ourselves in stickers and ribbons.
Overall, I gauged the event a success when a woman rode by on a uni-cycle, her top covered only by one of my bumper stickers.
Su-weet.
Then, we took station on a street corner and got down to the real business at hand. Giving out 2 for 1 tickets to the show after the parade was over.
People were hot. People were tired. Their hands were FULL of fliers.
And I was out of water in the spray bottles.
Eep.
There are over 300,000 people here today! This is a once-in-a-lifetime marketing opportunity. They are drunk. They are happy. I must give out every last flier...sell every last ticket.
Oh NO!
Suddenly, it hit me. The key to PRIDE is to have no pride. Relinquish all inhibitions. Throw these and all other silly fears into the sea of confetti.
I stuck a wad of tickets between my non-existent breasts and yelled out as loud as I could over the crowd...
"2 for 1 Theatre tickets and 6 free pairs between my breasts!!!"
And they came running.
We got mobbed.
Whether or not they will actually see the show?
I don't know.
But, I celebrated the day...
By being proud of me.
Crazy Bag at Vintage Theatre, Denver (Or the difference between audiences)
The first leg of the "cross-country-with-a-trailer-full-of-baggage" tour has been Vintage Theatre in Denver.
A quaint 68-seat theatre space snuggled into a lovely avenue of shady trees and red brick buildings that house new favorites like The Vine Street Pub and Saint Mark's Coffee House*, Vintage has been a good spot for this intimate show.
*(I reccomend the white, mocha iced coffee from Saint Mark's for pre-show amping and Vine Street does a mean pint and gives great patio for post-show unwinding. Not to mention, they make the best BLT with avacado...like ever)
The show has been relatively well-received here. But, everything is relative, isn't it? Considering Denver can have up to 50 productions running at one time, I've heard 18 people in the audience on a Friday night is...like...stellar.
While basking in the confines of "relative success", meaning we (the crew) allow ourselves an extra can of cat food for dinner, I sometimes sigh, put down the can opener, gaze into the empty can and remember the good ol' days...
The days when I could say the show (a cathartic memoir) was cheaper than therapy.
Oh yeah. That was before I started to self-produce.
Sometimes, I feel a little pang. And. No. It's not stomach cramps from Kiblets.
But more for the mountains from whence I came (Breckenridge, Colorado).
The ice covered land where all entertainment was well-attended entertainment.
Granted, in the land of ice and snow, you are competing with the elements themselves. A matinee? On a powder day? Well, you'd better be performing a naked trapeze act under the lift, itself.
But, in the depths of winter (which is 8 months of the year), when darkness falls early, and there are only 2 options: more apres ski or a theatre show (at either one of only two theatres...)
Ticket sales are as strong as a double whiskey hot-toddy.
Not to mention, the reception from the audience is warm. Like woolen gloves they embrace the jokes, and fly right over any technical snags like effortless moguls.
Word of mouth spreads like a game of tin-can telephone. The next weekend, your seats are bulging at the seams with happy bodies wrapped in wool.
In the city, not only are you competing with 90 degree evenings of grilling and chilling, you are asking audiences to choose you over Nationally Touring Productions (oh, wait...that's me)...um...I meant Nationally Touring Productions with 100 times more budget and wow-capabilities as your own and local production companies who have ridden (and well-deserved-ly survived) the relativity ebb and flow.
And...then of course, there's things like...Elitch Gardens.
Sob. I may be a "roller coaster ride of emotion" but I sure aint no REAL roller coaster.
And it's not just the attendance numbers.
In a city where good, solid entertainment is a way of life, the deepest pang comes from the effort to make a connection.
In urban-ity, even the body language is different.
In the mountains, the crowd sits forth ready to be spoon fed entertainment like warm porridge.
The city? Arms are crossed. One eye brow raised. You feel a bit like you have walked up to a stranger at Starbucks, tapped on his paper and asked to tell him a joke.
"This better be good"...
This is not to say that Denver audiences are not receptive. They are.
The show still really seems to touch people.
I still get the hugs, the tears and the thank you's after each performance.
I just feel like I have worked a little harder.
Okay. A lot. Harder.
Apparently, I've worked so hard, I make, "Sally Field seem ungrateful" (Denver Post)
And. Phew. It's true. I'm tired.
Yo, Saint Marks, more iced-mocha, stat!
As I drive home from the show, I remind myself, whether it be 1 or 1000 people attending, whether or not you had to Kung-Fu Panda the audience to give it out...
I left my job and committed to this journey of cat-food from a can and recycled panty hose...for a very specific reason.
I have a message.
I dream of the day people are throwing baggage out the window in celebration of this show!
And, sometimes, doesn't it feel even better getting something the old fashioned way.
To EARN it.
Thanks Denver for helping me earn some baggage chops.
The Baggage Rolls On (Denver)
"There is little success, when there is little laughter"-Andrew Carnegie
I have been seeking the humor in my current situation.
Well, actually, that's not true. I didn't know there even was humor in my current situation...until my friend, the light/sound guru, told me.
I am currently, on the Denver leg of the tour, living in a 3 bedroom home with an old friend, her 19 year old daughter, my 4 year old daughter, my friend (the light/sound guru), 2 female cats and myself.
That is 7. Count them. 7. Females. Under one roof.
No. Not a dream come true for you male readers out there.
More like a horror movie when we're all on the same cycle.
Not to mention...
Every one in the house, including the cats, is an artist, of some kind.
Two dancers, one painter, one actress, one toddler brilliantly talented in the art of tantrums and the cats who can...well...lick themselves at 90 degree angles.
Estrogen is one thing. But artistic estrogen??
Amazing the military doesn't commission that stuff for bombs.
We are all trying to make the best of the situation.
Trying and Best being the key words.
Women are, by their very estrogenic nature, high maintenance.
There are fishnets to wash, hair to be curled, tears to be shed and episodes of Will and Grace to be seen.
24/7.
My daughter, the estrogen tap not yet fully turned on, has very basic needs.
Food, shelter and ample time with Mommy and Spongebob.
Did I mention there was only one tv in the "House of the 7 Women"?
Yeah.
You can quickly solve the "Tantrum-ic Equasion".
Then there is the fact that my daughter insists on wearing nothing but party dresses everyday, but then absolutely refuses to wash her face or comb her hair.
I try to tell her she looks a bit odd with a pink pouf dress, wacked out hair and a spaghetti mustache....a bit like Carrie (think blood and prom dress)...but the reference misses her completely.
This morning, I am trying to get myself ready for a meeting, my daughter off to school, a grocery list for 7 compiled…basically, all the baggage ready to rock and roll…and, as always, I am about 30 minutes late leaving the station...
When she, once again, refuses to brush her hair.
Between rehearsals, performances, relocating to a new city, living in the fall-out of the estrogen bomb…I have been feeling a little like I have lost complete control over every area of my life.
Just, you know, in general.
And so. Her cowlick becomes my last straw.
That hair will be brushed...or I have the spine of Spongebob…and my parental abilities will be, officially, about 10,000 leagues under the sea.
Not to mention. We are late. We are late. We are really, really late.
I find myself forcing the issue.
“We are not taking one step out that door until you brush that hair.”
Now how does that help?
It does not get her head coiffed. But, instead, banged.
As in, She throws herself down and begins to tantrum.
So. Naturally. I decide to throw one myself.
Literally. I throw myself down. And start to wail.
My sound/light guru shoots me a look from the couch. A look that says, “Are you kidding? I’m missing the best part of Will and Grace”.
This makes me wail louder.
The baggage has once again, flattened me.
I. Am. Ashamed.
Of the fact that I can’t…carry it all.
That night, after the show, the light/sound guru offers some advice over a tense bottle of wine and shared rack of lamb.
“It’s funny, you know", she places like an unwelcome side of mint jelly, in my lap.
“What? That I have no control in my life?”
“Yeah. It’s a hoot”.
“I will choke you with this chop”, I snarl.
“Murphy. There are 5 women and 2 cats under one roof. We are living on air mattresses in hope of a better life. Our schedules are insane as we seek simplicity. You sleep 2 hours a night and bathe when you can no longer stand yourself. And you expect your daughter to BRUSH HER HAIR? THAT is funny”.
“I fail to find the humor”, I say before grabbing the bottle of wine and drinking straight from it.
“Okay. Then. How about this. You snort like a bull when you tantrum”.
"Pshaw! Do NOT!" I gasp, indignant, defensive which, yes, then makes me....snort.
It takes a minute…but then I get it. And I laugh.
I had forgotten the most basic rule of life:
When all else fails.....laugh.
Until you snort.
Or snort...until you laugh.
We clink glasses….
And the baggage rolls on.
Love, M
I have been seeking the humor in my current situation.
Well, actually, that's not true. I didn't know there even was humor in my current situation...until my friend, the light/sound guru, told me.
I am currently, on the Denver leg of the tour, living in a 3 bedroom home with an old friend, her 19 year old daughter, my 4 year old daughter, my friend (the light/sound guru), 2 female cats and myself.
That is 7. Count them. 7. Females. Under one roof.
No. Not a dream come true for you male readers out there.
More like a horror movie when we're all on the same cycle.
Not to mention...
Every one in the house, including the cats, is an artist, of some kind.
Two dancers, one painter, one actress, one toddler brilliantly talented in the art of tantrums and the cats who can...well...lick themselves at 90 degree angles.
Estrogen is one thing. But artistic estrogen??
Amazing the military doesn't commission that stuff for bombs.
We are all trying to make the best of the situation.
Trying and Best being the key words.
Women are, by their very estrogenic nature, high maintenance.
There are fishnets to wash, hair to be curled, tears to be shed and episodes of Will and Grace to be seen.
24/7.
My daughter, the estrogen tap not yet fully turned on, has very basic needs.
Food, shelter and ample time with Mommy and Spongebob.
Did I mention there was only one tv in the "House of the 7 Women"?
Yeah.
You can quickly solve the "Tantrum-ic Equasion".
Then there is the fact that my daughter insists on wearing nothing but party dresses everyday, but then absolutely refuses to wash her face or comb her hair.
I try to tell her she looks a bit odd with a pink pouf dress, wacked out hair and a spaghetti mustache....a bit like Carrie (think blood and prom dress)...but the reference misses her completely.
This morning, I am trying to get myself ready for a meeting, my daughter off to school, a grocery list for 7 compiled…basically, all the baggage ready to rock and roll…and, as always, I am about 30 minutes late leaving the station...
When she, once again, refuses to brush her hair.
Between rehearsals, performances, relocating to a new city, living in the fall-out of the estrogen bomb…I have been feeling a little like I have lost complete control over every area of my life.
Just, you know, in general.
And so. Her cowlick becomes my last straw.
That hair will be brushed...or I have the spine of Spongebob…and my parental abilities will be, officially, about 10,000 leagues under the sea.
Not to mention. We are late. We are late. We are really, really late.
I find myself forcing the issue.
“We are not taking one step out that door until you brush that hair.”
Now how does that help?
It does not get her head coiffed. But, instead, banged.
As in, She throws herself down and begins to tantrum.
So. Naturally. I decide to throw one myself.
Literally. I throw myself down. And start to wail.
My sound/light guru shoots me a look from the couch. A look that says, “Are you kidding? I’m missing the best part of Will and Grace”.
This makes me wail louder.
The baggage has once again, flattened me.
I. Am. Ashamed.
Of the fact that I can’t…carry it all.
That night, after the show, the light/sound guru offers some advice over a tense bottle of wine and shared rack of lamb.
“It’s funny, you know", she places like an unwelcome side of mint jelly, in my lap.
“What? That I have no control in my life?”
“Yeah. It’s a hoot”.
“I will choke you with this chop”, I snarl.
“Murphy. There are 5 women and 2 cats under one roof. We are living on air mattresses in hope of a better life. Our schedules are insane as we seek simplicity. You sleep 2 hours a night and bathe when you can no longer stand yourself. And you expect your daughter to BRUSH HER HAIR? THAT is funny”.
“I fail to find the humor”, I say before grabbing the bottle of wine and drinking straight from it.
“Okay. Then. How about this. You snort like a bull when you tantrum”.
"Pshaw! Do NOT!" I gasp, indignant, defensive which, yes, then makes me....snort.
It takes a minute…but then I get it. And I laugh.
I had forgotten the most basic rule of life:
When all else fails.....laugh.
Until you snort.
Or snort...until you laugh.
We clink glasses….
And the baggage rolls on.
Love, M
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Sampling of Crazy Bag Script
As published in the Denver Post:
Crazy Bag
Yeah. (Indicating pile)
So. I have a little baggage.
Do you think it’s too much?
Excessive?
Do I have a baggage problem?
I considered it a problem, the moment it appeared in my bed.
That’s right. Woke up one morning, spooning a piece of my own baggage.
(To ceiling) Hello, God? Last night? Before I went to sleep? I am pretty sure I specified hunk NOT trunk.
(Back to audience) Not the first time we’ve had a communication problem.
After I stopped fondling the trunk, I stepped out of bed. Into a carry-on. Went to brush my teeth? Ended up face down in a hat box!
They were everywhere.
Garment bags, wardrobes, trunks, vanity cases. On my dining room table…washing machine…TV… in the refrigerator.
This wasn’t your ordinary, run of the mill baggage, folks.
I reached for the American Tourister.
It growled at me.
Ok, I know they called it a trip. I just never thought the flashbacks would actually involve luggage.
I guess it’s possible I smoked a little baggage at some point. Those were crazy times.
But, when it was still there the next day? And the next. And the next?
And when it started breeding??
I never actually saw the Samsonite give birth. But, there were more little carry-ons every day.
Soon I had more baggage than I could handle. I had more baggage than JFK International could handle.
(Beat)
Please. Please don’t. Please don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy.
I prefer the term, well-traveled.
The word baggage?
Has two meanings. Luggage. Or. Impediment.
How can one word mean both: You’re goin’ places. And. Honey. You aint going anywhere?
When it isn’t going anywhere either.
It follows me everywhere.
I am losing my mind!!!
(Pause)
Actually, I already lost my mind.
Or parts of it, anyway.
The Day the Bags Fell. Out of here. (indicates head)
The overhead compartment? Otherwise known as the Hippocampus.
(Look back at bags) Apparently, I had a hungry, hungry hippocampus.
Crazy Bag
Yeah. (Indicating pile)
So. I have a little baggage.
Do you think it’s too much?
Excessive?
Do I have a baggage problem?
I considered it a problem, the moment it appeared in my bed.
That’s right. Woke up one morning, spooning a piece of my own baggage.
(To ceiling) Hello, God? Last night? Before I went to sleep? I am pretty sure I specified hunk NOT trunk.
(Back to audience) Not the first time we’ve had a communication problem.
After I stopped fondling the trunk, I stepped out of bed. Into a carry-on. Went to brush my teeth? Ended up face down in a hat box!
They were everywhere.
Garment bags, wardrobes, trunks, vanity cases. On my dining room table…washing machine…TV… in the refrigerator.
This wasn’t your ordinary, run of the mill baggage, folks.
I reached for the American Tourister.
It growled at me.
Ok, I know they called it a trip. I just never thought the flashbacks would actually involve luggage.
I guess it’s possible I smoked a little baggage at some point. Those were crazy times.
But, when it was still there the next day? And the next. And the next?
And when it started breeding??
I never actually saw the Samsonite give birth. But, there were more little carry-ons every day.
Soon I had more baggage than I could handle. I had more baggage than JFK International could handle.
(Beat)
Please. Please don’t. Please don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy.
I prefer the term, well-traveled.
The word baggage?
Has two meanings. Luggage. Or. Impediment.
How can one word mean both: You’re goin’ places. And. Honey. You aint going anywhere?
When it isn’t going anywhere either.
It follows me everywhere.
I am losing my mind!!!
(Pause)
Actually, I already lost my mind.
Or parts of it, anyway.
The Day the Bags Fell. Out of here. (indicates head)
The overhead compartment? Otherwise known as the Hippocampus.
(Look back at bags) Apparently, I had a hungry, hungry hippocampus.
Prince Alarming (The Un-Quest for Love Part I)
My daughter, who is 4, has recently developed a condition.
Once that is keeping me up at night with worry.
Her cheeks are flushed, she twitters when she speaks and her toes twinkle.
The doctors are baffled.
But, I'm not.
She is suffering from the very common, but dangerous, Cinderella-itis.
Cinderella-itis is a serious condition that is spread through exposure to tv rays and dvd output, passed from the mouths of babes and then breeds rapidly in the pocketbooks of exhausted mothers who will do just about anything to not hear that whining.
I even made her wash her hands after handling that Cinderella doll.
But. Sob. It was too late.
The Disney shaped virus was already coarsing through her veins and clogging them with glitter and hope.
The other day, at the park, she coughed up some of that glitter...
"Mommy? Where is your Prince Charming?", she asks sweetly as I belched after our picnic lunch.
Suddenly. I felt feverish.
"Dead". I said.
Thinking that would be the end of that.
But, just like when she squishes an ant between her pudgy pink fingers and then, just as easily, looks for another to replace it...
She hops up and runs over to the first man she sees.
A bald, pot-bellied prince straddling a moped and licking fried chicken from his fingers.
"'Scuse me, mister. My Mommy is looking for a Prince".
He grins, looks me over, wipes his mouth with his t-shirt and says...
"Ask your Mommy if she'll settle for a one-knight stand".
We walk home that evening. Hand in hand.
My daughter and I...that is.
I tell her that Cinderella was a lovely, but very misguided, make-believe character.
Finding Prince Charming should not be our only goal in life.
The fact that Mommy doesn't have one is a personal choice. I can rescue myself just fine, should I ever find myself trapped in a tower.
And so can she.
We are strong, independent women who enjoy staying home on a Friday night, we shave our legs for NO ONE....
Life is more than ball gowns!!
She ponders all this for a moment. And then says.
"But, then. Why don't they make movies about mommy's who wear dirty bathrobes?".
Good point.
Once that is keeping me up at night with worry.
Her cheeks are flushed, she twitters when she speaks and her toes twinkle.
The doctors are baffled.
But, I'm not.
She is suffering from the very common, but dangerous, Cinderella-itis.
Cinderella-itis is a serious condition that is spread through exposure to tv rays and dvd output, passed from the mouths of babes and then breeds rapidly in the pocketbooks of exhausted mothers who will do just about anything to not hear that whining.
I even made her wash her hands after handling that Cinderella doll.
But. Sob. It was too late.
The Disney shaped virus was already coarsing through her veins and clogging them with glitter and hope.
The other day, at the park, she coughed up some of that glitter...
"Mommy? Where is your Prince Charming?", she asks sweetly as I belched after our picnic lunch.
Suddenly. I felt feverish.
"Dead". I said.
Thinking that would be the end of that.
But, just like when she squishes an ant between her pudgy pink fingers and then, just as easily, looks for another to replace it...
She hops up and runs over to the first man she sees.
A bald, pot-bellied prince straddling a moped and licking fried chicken from his fingers.
"'Scuse me, mister. My Mommy is looking for a Prince".
He grins, looks me over, wipes his mouth with his t-shirt and says...
"Ask your Mommy if she'll settle for a one-knight stand".
We walk home that evening. Hand in hand.
My daughter and I...that is.
I tell her that Cinderella was a lovely, but very misguided, make-believe character.
Finding Prince Charming should not be our only goal in life.
The fact that Mommy doesn't have one is a personal choice. I can rescue myself just fine, should I ever find myself trapped in a tower.
And so can she.
We are strong, independent women who enjoy staying home on a Friday night, we shave our legs for NO ONE....
Life is more than ball gowns!!
She ponders all this for a moment. And then says.
"But, then. Why don't they make movies about mommy's who wear dirty bathrobes?".
Good point.
Did you just call me a STRONG Woman?
I write this on behalf of all the "strong women" .
The ones who speak their mind, maintain a sense of self.....and crush beer cans on their heads.
The other day my friend ("Miss Doilies for Bra Cups", we'll call her) says to me...
(insert demure southern purring here)...
"Murphy, darlin'. You are never going to get a man if you do not....tone it down".
Confused. I scratched my crotch....er...head, kicked my muddy hooker boots up on the table, lit a camel filter and demanded to know her meaning.
"Men do not like strong women", she cooed.
I batted away the birds and squirrels circling her and the one chipmunk who was finding burrow in my hoochie skirt.
"Oh, for their little peter's sake! That's ridiculous", I spat. Delicately.
There was a time I followed in the peach cobbled footsteps of my foremothers.
I purred, cooed and batted eyelashes.
Like warm cool-whip, I dolloped myself into men's laps.
I fainted at the sight of spiders. Asked for help opening jars.
And never, ever got "on top".
But. I was told I was too easy. Too "sweet".
And, in return, was oft treated like the pie of the day.
So, I got some self-worth. Some dignity. Kept my pie to myself.
Started drinking my iced tea straight (no sugar. Just Jack Daniels, please).
Like Sherman barreling across Atlanta, I pillaged, I plundered, I stole the good silver....I took no prisoners!
But, the men didn't surrender...instead ran screaming for the hills...
Or shot themselves on the spot.
Come on now.
I am a warm, funny, fabulously uncouth woman.
I won't chastise you for belching. But, all of my sweet nothings may include the f-word.
I am strong. I am proud. I can help myself.
I can kill my own spiders, damnit. With one hand!
All while "helping you out" (ahem) with the other.
I have worked hard to become who I am. Sweat out a lot of rose petals.
According to Miss Doilies, I may die alone.
Well. Please just enscribe my tombstone:
Too strong for a man. But. Made like a woman.
xo M
The ones who speak their mind, maintain a sense of self.....and crush beer cans on their heads.
The other day my friend ("Miss Doilies for Bra Cups", we'll call her) says to me...
(insert demure southern purring here)...
"Murphy, darlin'. You are never going to get a man if you do not....tone it down".
Confused. I scratched my crotch....er...head, kicked my muddy hooker boots up on the table, lit a camel filter and demanded to know her meaning.
"Men do not like strong women", she cooed.
I batted away the birds and squirrels circling her and the one chipmunk who was finding burrow in my hoochie skirt.
"Oh, for their little peter's sake! That's ridiculous", I spat. Delicately.
There was a time I followed in the peach cobbled footsteps of my foremothers.
I purred, cooed and batted eyelashes.
Like warm cool-whip, I dolloped myself into men's laps.
I fainted at the sight of spiders. Asked for help opening jars.
And never, ever got "on top".
But. I was told I was too easy. Too "sweet".
And, in return, was oft treated like the pie of the day.
So, I got some self-worth. Some dignity. Kept my pie to myself.
Started drinking my iced tea straight (no sugar. Just Jack Daniels, please).
Like Sherman barreling across Atlanta, I pillaged, I plundered, I stole the good silver....I took no prisoners!
But, the men didn't surrender...instead ran screaming for the hills...
Or shot themselves on the spot.
Come on now.
I am a warm, funny, fabulously uncouth woman.
I won't chastise you for belching. But, all of my sweet nothings may include the f-word.
I am strong. I am proud. I can help myself.
I can kill my own spiders, damnit. With one hand!
All while "helping you out" (ahem) with the other.
I have worked hard to become who I am. Sweat out a lot of rose petals.
According to Miss Doilies, I may die alone.
Well. Please just enscribe my tombstone:
Too strong for a man. But. Made like a woman.
xo M
This is Nuts
Humans are very resilient.
We can endure any situation.
If we have to.
If you are trapped on a desert island....
And there’s this one monkey that drops a coconut on your head every day....
You might grin and bear it.
But, as soon as you see that ship on the horizon?
That monkey is so getting it.
We can endure any situation.
If we have to.
If you are trapped on a desert island....
And there’s this one monkey that drops a coconut on your head every day....
You might grin and bear it.
But, as soon as you see that ship on the horizon?
That monkey is so getting it.
Murphy's Laws of Baggage
Got BAGGAGE??
(Psycho shower scene scream)
Sigh.
You, my friend, are doomed to a solo trip on the baggage carousel of life.
Go on. Just tag yourself "unclaimed" and keep going 'round (like the lost skiis in Daytona or....the vibrator that ended up in Tokyo while the batteries are in Duluth).
If it's true that we view life as a journey, and we do, baggage will always be a necessary evil.
We will always be packing it, lugging it and sitting on it to close it.
Emotionally, we will always be hiding our dirty knickers in it and hoping no one opens it.
But, where else are we going to store all those souvenirs we just had to pick up at every darn gift shop along the way?
I know a little something about the word baggage.
And, while sitting here on the pile, I have had time to buy some serious stock in Samsonite, and profoundly ponder these personal impediments of mine.
I have even compiled some laws about baggage that I recommend everyone keep tucked in the overhead.
Enjoy.
1. Baggage means both, you're going places and you aint going anywhere, when it isn't going anywhere either.
2. Baggage is about the only thing in life, aside from a gas tank, when bigger isn't necessarily better.
3. Baggage only rocks if it rolls.
4. If a woman has baggage, she should seek a mate with matching luggage or a big truck. And take whichever comes first.
5. En-light-enment can be reached through unpacking.
6. It is a bitch to balance excess baggage and high heels. But, balance can be achieved with a really big purse.
7. Men require women to keep their emotions to a 5 oz. minimum….and prefer if they fit in a one quart zip-lock bag.
8. If the baggage no longer fits in the overhead compartment, consider a "shrink".
9. Never trust anyone with a fanny pack. They're always leaving things behind.
10. Sometimes it really is better to keep things packed away. Ever bought a tent and tried to get it back into that little bag?
Love, The Belle of the Baggage Ball
(Psycho shower scene scream)
Sigh.
You, my friend, are doomed to a solo trip on the baggage carousel of life.
Go on. Just tag yourself "unclaimed" and keep going 'round (like the lost skiis in Daytona or....the vibrator that ended up in Tokyo while the batteries are in Duluth).
If it's true that we view life as a journey, and we do, baggage will always be a necessary evil.
We will always be packing it, lugging it and sitting on it to close it.
Emotionally, we will always be hiding our dirty knickers in it and hoping no one opens it.
But, where else are we going to store all those souvenirs we just had to pick up at every darn gift shop along the way?
I know a little something about the word baggage.
And, while sitting here on the pile, I have had time to buy some serious stock in Samsonite, and profoundly ponder these personal impediments of mine.
I have even compiled some laws about baggage that I recommend everyone keep tucked in the overhead.
Enjoy.
1. Baggage means both, you're going places and you aint going anywhere, when it isn't going anywhere either.
2. Baggage is about the only thing in life, aside from a gas tank, when bigger isn't necessarily better.
3. Baggage only rocks if it rolls.
4. If a woman has baggage, she should seek a mate with matching luggage or a big truck. And take whichever comes first.
5. En-light-enment can be reached through unpacking.
6. It is a bitch to balance excess baggage and high heels. But, balance can be achieved with a really big purse.
7. Men require women to keep their emotions to a 5 oz. minimum….and prefer if they fit in a one quart zip-lock bag.
8. If the baggage no longer fits in the overhead compartment, consider a "shrink".
9. Never trust anyone with a fanny pack. They're always leaving things behind.
10. Sometimes it really is better to keep things packed away. Ever bought a tent and tried to get it back into that little bag?
Love, The Belle of the Baggage Ball
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
