Analyzing a bovine moo-vement

I heard the restroom doors...er, uh...I mean, the gallery doors open and recognized my daughter's footsteps. "Sydney, come in here," I said, granting her access to the handi-capable stall. In this intimate enclosure, I had been reflecting upon a surprising but meaningful work of art and was delighted to now share it with Sydney. Together, we have perused the hallowed halls of the Louvre. We have spanned the United States to see art work by Matisse, Monet, Munch, Wood, Warhol, Rembrandt,  Vermeer, de Vinci, Van Gogh, and Picasso. We have learned, on our journey together, that art is everywhere.

"Am I wrong?" I asked as my daughter deliberated. Standing between painting and porcelain, tapestry and toilet, art and outhouse...an ironic threshold that  determines Gesamtkunstwerk from gastronimic distress. I will admit to feeling flushed as I waited for her opinion.

"It is compelling," she admitted, "Tell me what you like about it."

What DIDN'T I like about it?!?

"The juxtaposition of the soft, fuzzy ears and the derisive scorn emanating from the eyes first drew me in," I explained. Sydney nodded. How I wished she cradled a just-lit, intricately-carved pipe in her hand. "The metallic paint used for the fireworks of flowers exploding from the bucket..." I trailed off, over-come with feelings, "The metal bucket..." Sydney smiled gently at me, recognizing this emotional connection with my dad. I imagined her swirling a glass of brandy as we further analyzed this piece. Excitedly, I pointed out my final observation. "Look!" I exclaimed, "an intentional blob of white paint, raised from the canvas, running down the exterior of the bucket!" Incredible!

"Wow," Sydney finally said, "you really connected with this mass-produced, manufactured painting!" She asked for some private time to be able to further reflect upon it. I waited excitedly by the sinks for her to emerge from her sanguine solitude. I handed her a paper towel after she'd washed her hands."It's no Moo-na Lisa," Sydney remarked, "but this experience does prove that you never know where one will find their artistic moo-se."

 

Next time I'll remember my license so I can continue driving Brad Mosiman up the wall

I'd had so much fun at last year's nearby Kentucky Derby event that I was determined to go again. "You've been awful busy lately," my husband pointed out when I, again, popped this little proposal on him at the last minute. "Are you sure you're up to it?" 

Brad Mosiman prefers a minimum of twenty-four hours of planning and determination to be spontaneous. Picking his ponies on the thirty minute drive prior to Post Time is not his ideal scenario. Add to that his having to deal with a nervous wife who may or may not bolt prior to his placing his bet and you can see why, sometimes, it's just easier to stay home.

We successfully made it to the busy parking lot of which I scurried about like a scared squirrel until Brad wrangled me to the doors. He sighed with resignation when I immediately began stammering out my apology. I pointed to the sign that read "No admittance without ID" and without a word, my husband pivoted so that we could leave. Before we reached the exit though, he pulled me to the side. "Let's at least place our bets," he said.

I hadn't done my research this year so I went with my gut. Rarely does that go well. Tucked into a corner table at a nearby restaurant, I watched my horse rear up and then topple backwards rather than be loaded into the gate. I respected that. I watched, worried to see if my pony and his rider were okay and then laughed as my horse skipped happily back to his stall, rewarded for his bad behavior. I wouldn't be surprised if someone offered him a Dum-Dum pop later. My daddy had told me not to bet on the grays.

 

Would you believe that, after all that, I still won?

An evening out with Brad Mosiman and a good meal is an unbridled victory.

I know the drill: Bracing myself for the storm

After my dentist of over twenty-five years gave me the Irish good-bye ("Didn't you receive his form letter in the mail?" a friend asked. "Yeah, three months AFTER he left the practice," I complained bitterly.), I will admit to some feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. I'd given that man the worst teeth of my life, funding his in-ground swimming pool as well as trips to Africa, South America, and Greece. We had a relationship. He could count on seeing me only when a tooth had exploded beyond repair and I could count on him to drive me to wherever my truck had most recently broken down. His staff was kind and compassionate while he developed a sure-fire way to handle my off-the-medical-charts anxiety: Ignoring it.

So...there I was. New dentist. Same location.

Okay...familiar surroundings are helpful.

New staff. Whew! Still kind and compassionate.

My new friend Marlene met me at the office door. "Amy, we're ready for you. It should only take about an hour."

I laughed. That Marlene. She's a silly one. "You mean five minutes," I shot back, navigating the narrow passage back to rooms filled with medieval torture chairs.

Marlene laughed. That Amy. She's a silly one.

I suddenly stopped short. Not to pivot and flee like I usually do. But to crouch and coo. 

"Hello," I said softly, "And who are you?"

I was quickly introduced to my new dentist's dog, Stormy. She wagged a welcome before trotting away.

Soon, I was ensconced at an alarming angle, the blood rushing to my head, being fitted with a dental dam (think of it like a mouth condom), glad that I'd recently gotten a pedicure because my toes were the tallest feature in the room. Wish I'd chosen silver glitter...a disco ball would have been a perfect addition to this little scenario. 

My former dentist had failed to leave behind my secret file on how to deal with the consequences of my anxiety. Instead of boring me with endless stories of him refereeing middle school girls soccer leagues or replacing the chains on his bicycle, this new guy thoughtlessly asked me how I was and if I were comfortable. Sure, this mini-trampoline attached to my face is the height of luxury. Instead of ignoring the uncontrollable shaking, the tears streaming down my face, or the fingernails being dug into my arm, Marlene gently asked if I needed to have her hold my hand and the new guy forced a squeezable mango into my clenched fist. Breaks were offered. Voices were soothing. "Amy, do you want to pet Stormy?"

I was embarrassed. To be this emotionally exposed and vulnerable is humiliating. I just want to be ignored and push through. 

But...a dog?

I nodded past the rubber gag that sounds so much better in the naughty novels of which some women of low moral character occasionally read. 

Stormy sidled by my chair and I reached out a shaking hand, stroking her silky fur.

"Do you want her to lay in your (45 degree angled) lap?"

I couldn't. That would be ridiculous.

I nodded.

Stormy settled in and I let go of my death-grip on the mango and ran my fingers through her fur.

My apologies for all the doubts and derision that I'd cast on all the emotional-comfort service dogs being used out there. Of course there are countless naughty people out there down-loading those certificates for their own selfish gain but if even ONE person is helped...so what??? I could feel my heartbeat slowing. My breathing evened out some. My muscles relaxed as I pet this sweet, calm animal. 

My only problem now?

A storm had settled on my bladder.

I shifted. Stretched. Curled and kegel-ed. 

I gave a subtle (for me) sign language gesture, easily-recognizable to elementary children everywhere. 

No good.

I was going to have to be bold or risk water-boarding the room.

Never had a hydraulic lift moved so slowly. I raced, my mouth still Tupperware-lidded down, to the dark bathroom, and dove in, leaving my dignity at the partially-gaped-open door. I primly shut it to wash my hands, flipping the light on, unable to scream at the nightmarish creature staring back at me in the mirror. Stand back, fellas. She's taken. That Brad Mosiman is one lucky devil.

Believe it or not, this was one of the BEST dental experiences of my life. 

Yes, I looked like an idiot with my taut latex mouth condom.

Yeah, I humiliated myself by crying for over an hour in a situation where a majority of adults AND children are able to skate through without a second thought. 

And, yup. I almost pissed my pants.

But still, one of the best.

There's a lot to be said about focusing on canine care when you visit the dentist.

Yee-huh? We're done? We're done!

Our reluctant, one-year, guilt-ridden directorial gig somehow expanded into three. We've explored weird and wonderful realms:  medieval kingdoms, industrial steampunk circus tents, and the Wild West. We yelled ("Projected"), threatened ("You CAN be replaced!), encouraged ("Cut! Do it again!"), cajoled, quick-stepped and clapped our way through three productions, feeling like fake, foolish frauds. When was someone going to realize that Erin and I had no business doing this?

Directing young actors is an exhausting, soul-sucking endeavor that encompasses your entire life. How on earth were we going to quickly attach a sheriff's badge that could be easily seen by the back row to three consecutive individuals? I sat bolt-upright at three in the morning. Giant magnets! I wrestled a sheriff badge out of cardboard to prototype my idea, Erin glittered it up and we were done. "I appreciated your inclusivity," my daughter commented after viewing the afternoon performance. I was confused. "I liked the Star of David that all of your lawmen were sporting," Sydney snickered. Oh no! I was so busy making sure we didn't unintentionally culturally-appropriate  from our Native American friends (re-casting the part of Chief Squatting Squirrel to the more politically-correct Miner Inconvenience) that I forgot about the tribe of Israel. Oy vey!

I am not sure why this worked. There is nothing subtle about Erin and me. We are loud, obsessive, and have no trouble expressing our feelings. Thanks to God, though, we were blessed with talented, dedicated actors and surrounded by a hard-working, gifted team who all put up with our antics. We front-loaded forgiveness in the beginning, prioritized our friendship over the esteemed (and ridiculous) position of "director", took turns venting, constantly balanced out our roles of "good cop" and "bad cop" and communicated constantly. Rarely were we at 100%. We picked up one another's slacks during the flu, kid-commitments, care-taking, death, and the constant up-keep of Erin's waxed floors. 

We respected and encouraged each other's gifts. Erin is a brilliant choreographer and is insanely organized. She has high expectations of her cast and will nip at their heels to help them bring out their best performances. She kept us to a tight schedule with the end goal always in mind and can delegate needed-responsibilities like a drill sergeant. My roles included re-writing British puns for rural American audiences, creating posters and programs, team-building with unnecessary improv exercises, and, oddly enough, following up Erin's constructive comments to our cast with constant reminders that we love them and are proud of them. Ugh.

Our brain-storming sessions were seasoned with bouts of screaming laughter that alerted our prop manager that she was going to be asked to do yet another ridiculously-impossible thing for a one-second sight gag. A water closet, a stage coach, 18 pairs of cardboard boxer underwear? How hard could it possibly be to create a tumbleweed? C'mon! Snap-snap! And Sandy would smilingly "snap-snap" our vision into place. It would not be too far off to say that one of the real stars of those plays were the sets. 

We never did trust-falls in improv but that's what being involved in a play is like:  One big trust-fall. Holding our breath waiting for the spotlight to hit or a sound effect to land...and it always did (Thank you, Eric and Katriel.). Needing a shovel right at the last minute and suddenly, it appears. Needing a rolling cart to be moved two feet over in the pitch dark near the edge of a stage with a three foot drop? Thank you, Cindy. "Yes, I know you aren't really going anywhere, but we need you to lift your knees higher as you walk in place. I don't care how stupid you feel. Just do it." And Joey did it, keeping a straight face as she sang, holding onto the string connecting

her to a ridiculous costumed mule while behind them, clouds cavorted by, the sun shimmied through, a cabaret of cactuses crossed, tumbleweeds trickled in, and a stagecoach full of our administrators sped by. And Joey just kept singing, trusting Erin to keep time. Trust is what happens with the stage lights go out and the auditorium empties and the entire Mistretta family joins the stage crew to take down a set that took months to assemble. Trust is what happens when, seconds before the performance, Erin and I clasp hands in the darkened hallway and we pray, thanking God for this opportunity to serve Him by providing an environment of acceptance and encouragement for kids to support one another and showcase their incredible talents in a safe and loving atmosphere. We thanked God for our friendship and for the people He provided to help us with a task we weren't sure we wanted or even could do but, by His Great Grace, we'd reached the finish line. 

Jokingly, our much-repeated line to the kids, our first year, was "This is the best play we've ever directed!" To which they would happily bellow back, "It's the ONLY play you've ever directed!" This year, with the Wild West theme clearly in mind, Erin and I, much quieter, determined to make it as much about the kids as possible, promised one another, "This year, we will go out with a bang." During the finale, a rousing number called "The Stetson Stomp," our cast clapped, stomped, and do-si-do-ed around the stage. A high-energy performance that almost knocks Erin and me out of our chairs. What we were NOT prepared for was the wave of matching energy that hit like a tsunami coming from behind us. Our eyes on the stage, we didn't dare look but we could feel the clapping and stomping that accompanied our actors as our audience unexpectedly joined the cast. 

It was perfect.

Last play.

Last song.

We did it. We went out with a bang.

That's a wrap, folks.

Thanks.