A Wicked Evening

I was bubbling over with excitement and anticipation regarding last night's performance of "Wicked" at the Rochester Auditorium Theatre.  This would be my fourth time seeing the play and I was still on pins and needles, counting down the days and then the tick tocks on the Time Dragon Clock until I would be smushed into a too-tight-for-Amy-Mosiman cushioned seat and transported back to Oz.  The only cloud in my over-the-rainbow horizon was a passing remark by an acquaintance who indicated that the play wasn't Christian.  My standard response for "religious" judgment (after the rolling of the eyes...which, by the way, never remedies the situation) is to explain that #1:  adults can usually determine fiction from nonfiction, #2: adults can enjoy mainstream entertainment without being swayed to renounce their Savior and immediately begin a life of debasement and debauchery, and #3:  Did I ask for your opinion? (that response usually doesn't help either).  I have fought for the positive themes of the "Harry Potter" series for years using C.S. Lewis's "Narnia" books as evidence that the use of witches and wizardry are literary tools to entertain not ensnare.  "Wicked's" themes of friendship, loyalty and sacrifice have been utterly ignored by some individuals who only hear Elphaba murmuring her magic spells.  For people like my acquaintance, Elphaba is still being cast in her one-dimensional role as the wicked witch.

Later, as my little van skipped merrily down the yellow-barrel-lined 390 with Sydney at the wheel (oh my!), I thought about "Wicked" and wondered if Jesus was unhappy about my decision to see it for the fourth time.      
Pulling into the parking lot, the attendant directed us to a specific spot, positioned perpendicular to a school bus from Savannah-Clyde.  We parked right in front of our own "reserved" sign!  Hmmm.  Exiting the lot, I pointed out to the girl who took our money that she'd parked us right in front of my daughter's name.  Startled, she then smiled and shared that her 6-year-old daughter's name was Savannah too!!!  Hmmmm.  The show, of course was spectacular.  I am adopting Fiyero's line when he answer's Elphaba's disgusted inventory of his character with utmost sincerity that "I am genuinely self-absorbed and deeply...shallow."  (WARNING:  sarcastic tone ahead)  I can totally understand how someone would mistake Elphaba's standing up for the rights of those with no voice as unChristian.  I see now that the slowly blossoming friendship between two unlike characters who learn to see past and then eventually value one another's differences could be damaging to my spiritual walk.  I must have been BLIND not to realize....never mind.  (You have just exited the sarcastic zone...please resume normal reading speed.).

At the curtain call, the talented actors (who successfully thrilled my senses but sadly, did not wrestle my soul from Jesus's capable hands...sorry, I'll let it go now) made a petition for donations on behalf of "Broadway Cares" to fund HIV/AIDS research as well as breast cancer treatment.  $200 would make you feel GREAT as a sacrificial and generous donor with the side benefit of getting you a ride in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) magic bubble!  Ahhhhhh!!!!!  It was more than obvious (to everyone EXCEPT Brad Mosiman) that I would cheerfully yank out an eyetooth to saddle up and ride a bubble.  Now, I have written half a million scripts for my husband regarding how to handle and respond to almost every scenario...we can't buy those jeans, your rear looks MUCH too small...the predominant lack of salt in this meal makes the flavors REALLY stand out...the way you never use a turn signal really helps keep other driver's on their toes!  Sadly, I had not prepared him for this.  While Amy Mosiman heard "bubble," Brad Mosiman heard "$200."  When Amy Mosiman said with longing and insincere sacrifice in her voice, "I couldn't possible ride in the bubble if Savannah and Sydney didn't do it too," Brad Mosiman was suppose to say, "Pish posh, they would be happy for you!  You must simply ride in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) bubble!  I can't wait to see how beautiful you look as you float across the stage."   Instead, he said, "You sure?" and shrugged, moving to exit the theatre.  Can you believe it?  He SHRUGGED!  Talk about insensitive and uncaring.  He NEVER listens!!

As I shuffled along the darkened sidewalk to our reserved parking space, my mind was filled with many things.  The phenomenal musical.  Misconceptions.  My mean ol' husband.  Suddenly I was lifted, as though I were in Glinda's (the "Ga-" is silent) magical bubble, and as suddenly as I was lifted, I was hurling through time and space onto the concrete in what my family best describes as the "prehistoric raptor" pose.  I   (As Yukon Cornelius would say, "Bumbles...and Amy Mosiman...bounce!") bounced dramatically on the ground, took a shuddering, self-assessing breath, snapped at my caring family to leave me alone, was handed my lost shoe, staggered back to my feet, shot a "thumbs up" to the line of cars staring at the spectacle I was making, dashed directly into traffic before being herded off by same said family to my van where I cried like a child.  Naturally, I blame Brad.  Had he ponied up the two hundred bucks, I would have been having a life-changing magical experience instead of being transformed into a human pothole with bruised knees and ego.  My opinionated and judgment-casting acquaintance, of course, should assume some responsibility for "my fall" (hee hee...really, I honestly did try to "let it go").  My "family" tried to tell me that my innate clumsiness and lack of orthopedic shoes were primarily responsible for the incident but we all know better, don't we?

As I watched the yellow-barreled-construction barriers that line 390S fly by, I realized (you thought I was going to say, "There's no place like home", didn't you...Am I really that predictable?  Please don't answer that...refer to the script I gave you) I had a wicked headache and just wanted to go home and go to bed.  But I also know that the next time "Wicked" is back in town, I'll be the first in line!

A Not-So-Gifted Gifter

Within this season of giving, I thought I would be nice to stop and reflect about yet another dysfunctional aspect of my life: the reciprocal gift-exchange. Case in point: My 21^st wedding anniversary. Ben Franklin (and Shakespeare and fortune cookies and the Magic Eight Ball) was famous for saying "Neither a lender nor a borrower be." Obviously he had little respect for grammatical guidelines forbidding sentences ending with a preposition. Loosely translated, I think our kite-flying friend may have actually been encouraging the purchase of gift cards to avoid the inevitable shambles which result from Amy Mosiman's poorly orchestrated good intentions.

Naturally, I researched the commemorative "Gift Table" prior to my purchase. One year is paper. Ten years is tin. Twenty is china. With that in mind, I trotted out to purchase my beloved his Indoor/Outdoor Thermometer. Nestled between my customary package of "Junior Mints," a 20 ounce  Pepsi, and a box of "Ho-Ho's," I left the unattended bag on my kitchen counter for only a couple of hours. Imagine my indignation when Brad thoughtlessly investigated the contents of my transparent plastic “gift” bag and happily discovered his romantic present a week early.

The fury, I mean flurry, of excitement also extended to my children. Left to my own devices one Sunday afternoon (my family rarely allows my activities to go unmonitored), I was moving one of Sydney's school bags when a small Dollar General bag fell out. As I went to return it, a large raspberry Ghiradelli chocolate bar slid out, practically screaming "Anniversary!" Torn, tormented, and tortured, I resisted temptation for practically five minutes before rationalizing my pre-gift consumption. My tearful confession was met with a notable lack of surprise. Although one work colleague suggested that this act may have placed me on Dante's third circle of "h-e-double hockey sticks" among other gluttons, my child appeared relatively unaffected.

Aware of her mother's interesting idiosyncrasies, sixteen-year-old Savannah has been diligently working to thwart my amazing propensity to ruin any and all gift giving opportunities. This year, Savannah waited until Brad had taken me out for our anniversary meal (Yeah, I ruined that too…sometimes there's just not enough words) before putting her plan into action. She hurriedly baked chocolate chip cookies for her father and me (no nuts for me—how's that for irony?), packaged and hid them, washed the dishes, disposed for the garbage, and aired out the house. Sorry, I'm like a blood hound. I stepped into my house, my nose honed in like a compass to magnetic north. "There is something amiss in my house," I announced pointedly. Dissecting my home with a keen eye, I stalked through each room like Sherlock Holmes on the hunt, at last unearthing the hidden containers in my bedroom. Foiled again, Savannah! Which brings us back to another less famous but remarkably astute Franklin quote, "[S]he who lives upon hope will die fasting."  Enjoy the gift-giving season!


as published in Warsaw's Country Courier 
http://www.mywnynews.com/arcade_warsaw/