Blessings and Tonys and Zombies

My sister is here for a visit this weekend, with Tiny Nephew and Slightly-Larger Nephew. It’s excellent to have them here. CC and all the kids are thrilled because they haven’t met Tiny Nephew before, and we don’t get to see most of my family more than once a year, tops. I’m happy to report that Tiny Nephew still has itty bitty feet.

The Puggle and the Fuggle are fascinated by the sounds Tiny Nephew makes. They like that he’s small, and smells like milk and poop. They’ve found a kindred spirit.

CC and I both had to work two shows yesterday right after they got here, but my sister kept me updated with pictures. This is the one that broke my heart:

The clown, the baby of our family, bacon-crazed, never-serious #5, with Tiny Nephew, sitting up straight, being responsible, resting his hand on the baby’s belly. I showed it to someone at work and she asked, “When did he grow up?” and I said, “Apparently, right then, when he had someone to be older than.”

Yes, they keep asking for a baby. No, we’re not going to have one.

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CC and I have a party to go tonight for his work.

We both have pretty cool jobs. Speaking for myself only, the fact that I have this job is proof of some benevolent force working in the universe because if I had the job I deserve, it would likely involve cleaning up after an exploding whale.

Last night a man came up to me at the end of the show and insisted that my main speakers hadn’t been on all night. He had an English accent so he already sounded smarter than me. I told him I’d check it out, but I think he was looking for a different answer, because he wouldn’t leave.

English dude: You must believe me. I’ve seen it three times. Your speakers weren’t on.

Me:

Because really, I’ve got nothing for that. Nothing at all.

The Tony awards, the reason for tonight’s party, don’t mean much to anyone except to the people that work in theater. Okay, let’s be honest: Theater doesn’t mean much to anyone, unless they work in theater. There is a small and mighty cross section of die-hard fans across the globe, small being the key word.

When CC was touring with Phantom in the 80’s, the crew once exchanged house seats for tickets to a Space Shuttle Launch. That’s badass. By the time I got on the road, it didn’t matter how big or high-profile the show was, nobody had heard of it.

I toured with Aida (the musical written by Elton John and Tim Rice) and largely, if people recognized the name, they thought it was the opera (by Verdi). If they saw the commercial, they thought it was about interracial love.

*sigh*

Loading out the Hairspray tour in Providence, sun coming up near the end of a twenty-two hour work day, a minivan pulls into the alley and flags me down.

Me: Yes?

Woman in Van: Are you with the Wiggles?

*sigh*

It ain’t rock’n’roll, that’s for sure. But once a year we get a shot on prime time TV. Broadway has some ridiculously talented people and you should tune in tonight, CBS at 8pm EST, and check some of them out. You won’t get to see the stagehands though, unless something goes horribly, horribly wrong.

CC’s show is up for practically every award tonight. I’m stupidly excited for them.

The first Tony for Sound Design was given in 2008. My two very favorite sound designers are up for the award tonight, my designer (Steve Kennedy) and CC’s (Brian Ronan). I have a million people to be grateful for, but I am deeply, deeply indebted to these two men. Without them, all this would have been a very different story.

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Last night I dreamt of zombies. It was one of those dreams where you look around and you gradually see that the situation is worse than you first thought, and you realize that you’re the only one who knows it, and you keep looking around and all of these very normal seeming people are actually all zombies and they get more and more zombie looking and therefore more dangerous every second, and one, who had been holding my hand was suddenly grabbing my wrist and he twitched and I recognized him for what he was and started punching the crap out of him.

CC, springing straight up in bed: Jesus Christ!! WHY ARE YOU PUNCHING ME?

Me: ZOMBIE! ZOMBIE!!!!

CC: STOP PUNCHING ME!

Me: I HAVE TO, YOU’RE A ZOMBIE!!!

CC: STOP! I’M NOT A ZOMBIE! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?

Me:

Because I had nothing for that, either.

And now, I have to go see if I fit into any of my party dresses.

Tell me about your blessings, theater opinions, or zombie experiences.

Winning

CC usually has to wait for me. For everything. He’s the most efficient person I’ve ever met and he does about 90% of everything we have to do around the house, even though he mostly always has between one and five children either hanging on him or otherwise clamoring for his attention. Seriously, he’s amazing.

He’s also been dragging my ass to the gym lately. Don’t get me wrong, exercise is often the only thing that keeps my head glued on. Left to my own devices I usually get there three days a week. But some rainy or sunny or cold or hot mornings when faced with the gym or going back to bed and eating cookies, it’s a tough call.

So he’s waiting on me today so we can go to the gym. He’s ready. I have to get dressed. I have to brush my teeth. I have to check something online. I have to put on a shirt over a shirt because I feel fat. I have to put on lipgloss, and tell myself that it’s like chapstick. I have to check something else online. Finally, I’m ready.

Then he says he wants to switch the laundry. I stand on the landing watching him. He goes in the laundry room.

3baskets — a small portion of the laundry

CC: Crap, this is all ours. I have to bring it all upstairs.

(The kids semi-handle their own laundry, under duress)

CC: Crap, there are no baskets.

There never are baskets (see the above parenthetical element). He passes me with an armful of laundry. Unlike me, he doesn’t drop any of it. He does nine others things in like a minute and a half and gets another load started and I tell him he’s amazing.

Me: You’re amazing.

CC: I’m not as amazing as you think. I should have done this while I was waiting on you.

He passes me again. Comes back downstairs. He’s finally ready. He smirks at me, and laughs because I’m waiting on him for a change.

CC: How’s it feel?

Me: Watching you do all the work? Fantastic.

Bad love haiku, or why I married him.

Before we lived together, CC and I used to text bad haikus back and forth. I would usually start it off while I was waiting for my bus at the freak show that is the Port Authority. I had the count backwards but he would let it slide. They were like this:

Pigeon in the bus station

Hopping on one leg

Could hit him with my Kimber.

They mostly were about pigeons, because the pigeons that wander inside the Port Authority never leave and they’re all missing parts and get very aggressive trying to get your snacks. I was thinking about that the other day while he was making me food, so I wrote him one, sans pigeons. I like the ones with the pigeons better but the form was wrong, and this one has breakfast.

He makes me tasty

heart-shaped eggs and home fries

with Sriracha face: