My Theory of Tippability: Why It's Not All Relative

Tonight, I'd like to write about tipping. Not cow-tipping. Restaurant tipping. Or rather, fast-food restaurant tipping.

I kind of have a pet peeve and I feel torn about it.

But first, a little background. I used to work in a restaurant. So I know how to tip. I know what it means to tip. I know who tips the most (Lovers and other Waiters), who tips the worst (Christians, Teenagers and PWT) and who tips to the penny (Asians).

I also know that when I worked at a restaurant, I made $2.13 and that's not because I'm a hundred years old and that's what minimum wage was back then. I'm only 33. And this was just after Y2K, so minimum wage was well over four dollars. Yet, I made $2.13 and hour. And yes, there were days (Monday lunches) where I never got one table and therefore walked home with less than minimum wage.

Most days though, we did fine considering the restaurants I worked in were in Waco. Actually, I should take that back. One restaurant I worked in was fine. The other was... well, not fine.

We'll call that restaurant, Chochkies (my second Office Space reference of the week, hmm...) to protect the guilty. While Chochkies didn't make me wear flair (because the restaurant I worked at wasn't actually T.G.I. Fridays, but somewhere very similar), they did make me wear all white tennis shoes, which I had to purchase, because who in their right mind owns all white tennis shoes besides grandmas and nurses? So right there I'm out $40 or so for those damn white tennis shoes. But I'm missing my point.

My first week at Chochkies, I didn't make much money and so on the final evening of that week, I worked until closing. The shift leader was sweeping the carpet (weird, I know) and a family of seven came in to eat. "You can have 'em" she said, and I was so thankful. I couldn't believe she'd given me a table of seven! She must have been taking pity on me since I'd been complaining about not making much money. Maybe I'd been underestimating these people I worked with at Chochkies...

The table ordered, ate, paid their bill (split checks three ways, I think) and got up to leave. I scurried to the table to begin busing it since it's late and I too wanted get home and that's when I saw their tip: $2.

"Seriously?"

I said this out loud. As in, not to myself, nor in my head.

This may be why when my family heard I was waiting tables to make money during grad school, they laughed.

A couple of the people from the table turned around when they heard me. "Two dollars?" I said, shocked and defeated, and let's admit it, a little defiant. One man fumbled in his pocket and threw down another dollar or two. And then they all left.

"What the hell?" I complained incredulously to my shift leader. They left me less than 10% on a table of seven people and a bill of almost $70!

"I know," she said nonchalantly. "That's why I let you have that table. Hispanics always tip bad."

And there you have it. My first (but not last!) encounter with racism in Waco, Texas, and my first of many "lessons" on tipping and waiting tables. I called my mother that night, traumatized. "She can't say that," I whispered into the phone. "It's so racist!"

And I'm pretty sure that in defiance I took as many "ethnic" tables as possible for the next week.

And then I quit.

Turns out Applebee's, oops, I mean Chochkies, and I weren't a good fit (I also couldn't stand my managers). So I moved on to a local Wacoan restaurant with a slighter different clientele, and I began serving customers there. "I need a Coors for me and a Coors Light for the little lady... oh and a dozen oysters."

All that to say, I know how important it is to tip at restaurants. When you get paid $2.13 an hour by the restaurant, your salary comes from the people you serve. Which is why you want to give good service. Everyone should know this. The managers of the restaurant know it (they adjust the prices of the food knowing that part of what the customer pays goes to the servers), the cooks know it (they're paid by the hour, which is why they can yell at the waiters all they want and not get in trouble - they don't get tipped), the waiters know it (obviously, it's their paycheck), and hopefully the customers know it.

So, if you can't afford to tip when you go out to eat at a sit-down restaurant, don't go at all, because tipping is part of the package.

But I've digressed again. This was supposed to be a post about fast-food restaurants.

You see, I was in line recently at a local chain sandwich shop that had a drive-thru window. I ordered in front of a screen showing me my options, I pulled forward and paid for my sandwich (extra for the pickle slices) and received my sandwich wrapped in paper and stuffed in a plastic bag. I drove away from the window and continued on my journey.

I did not put a tip on the line that said tip when I scribbled my John Hancock at the bottom of the credit card receipt. Because I think it's wrong to tip at fast food restaurants... for two reasons.

One: you're not really getting service.

Two: it's racist.

Let's start with the service as it's easier and less controversial. Maybe.

When you go out to eat at a sit-down restaurant, you are usually escorted to the table, seated, brought your drink, told of specials, answered any questions, given recommendations, your order is taken, you receive complimentary bread, your food is cooked to your desire, it's put on a plate and made to look nice, it comes with specialized condiments on the side, it's delivered to your place setting where you are given additional utensils if needed, in a few minutes you are asked how it tasted, do you need anything else, you receive a refill on your drink, more complimentary bread is brought to your table, your asked if you'd like dessert or an aperitif, your empty plates are cleared, leftovers boxed, and your bill delivered. After you leave, any remaining plates are cleared, washed and set out to dry, your table is wiped and sanitized and any salt, pepper, sugar or ketsup is replaced if necessary.

At a fast food restaurant, you walk up to the counter to order, you pay, you receive your food wrapped in paper or cardboard, you pick up your own condiments, you leave.

That's not service.

No one waits on you, no one washes your dishes, no one refills your drinks, and if you're lucky the table you sat at gets wiped down at the end of some kid's shift. And those people don't make less than minimum wage. So in my opinion there's no need to tip. Whether you're at a local chain sandwich shop that charges extra for the pickle or whether you're at Starbucks, I think tipping for that "service" is dumb.

The other reason I don't like to do that though, is because I think it's racist.

And it's racist, because we're not consistent with our "fast-food" tipping. Think about the places that put tip jars next to the register. (First indicator you shouldn't be tipping. if you're paying at a register, you're not getting tip-worthy service. You just had to stand in line for someone to punch in numbers and take your cash. Give me a break). Starbucks, Ben & Jerry's, sometimes Quizno's, Thundercloud Subs, Freebirds, Amy's Ice Cream (local chains here in Texas), or a local coffee shop in your town. Now, think of other places that give you food wrapped in paper or coffee poured in cardboard, i.e. "fast-food" places, that don't have tip jars next to their registers: McDonald's, Wendy's, Taco Bell, Hardee's, Long John Silvers... you get the picture.

Now, think about who works at Starbucks, Ben & Jerry's and Thundercloud Subs and where those restaurants are usually located... and now think about who works at McDonald's and Taco John's other such chains and where they are located.

You may have guessed I'm poor. If I were rich, this might be a different post. I'd tip anywhere there was a tip jar just to share the wealth. I also vote democrat for similar reasons. But because I'm poor, I have to pay attention to my money. And if I don't have enough to tip at a sit-down restaurant, then I buy fast food. And I've no intention of tipping at such places because I think it's wrong to tip at restaurants where wait service isn't offered. And I think it's wrong to tip at restaurants where the kid behind the counter is either the daughter of that lawyer who goes to your church because you're ordering from the Starbucks at the end of your block in your predominantly white, middle class part of town, or it's that kid with all the tattoos who wants to be in a rock band so they dropped out of college and they're working at a local sandwich shop cause it's local and that's awesome, and mom and dad still foot the rent, because well, there's always a fall-back plan for poor people in their twenties who come from middle or upper class families who can pay the rent until said hippie or skater or musician finds their way or goes back to school.

I'm generalizing, I know. And maybe that makes me as "ist" as my shift leader at Applebee's.

But I don't think those people in those neighborhoods reeeally need the money. They need the money, don't get me wrong. They're college kids or graduate students, or people in their twenties who lost their job and now need a gig that comes with health insurance (thank you Starbucks), but they don't need the money like the people who work at McDonald's on the east side of Austin. The people who work fast-food on this side of town may think they world owes them something, but they're not going to put out a tip jar to show it.

And that's what frustrates me. The people who really could use the extra cash, that 50 cent tip for the coffee in a cardboard cup or that two dollar tip for a sandwich wrapped in paper aren't going to get it. They'll take their meager minimum wage check home and hand it over to their parents, or cash it and head to the dollar store (where for some reason it's legal to buy expired! food), or they give it straight to the bank who's threatening foreclosure on their two bedroom home housing three kids and their grandmother)...

I had an argument with a youth from Westlake High (one of the wealthiest parts of Austin) once about kids from Johnston (a school in the poorest part of Austin that closed the year before). He thought that dealing drugs was stupid (I agreed) and that those Johnston high teens have other choices they can make in their lives. They don't have to sell drugs, they choose to sell drugs, was his argument.

"What if their parents don't make enough to support their family?" I asked him. "What if they don't get enough to eat at their house? What if they want their younger siblings to get a Christmas present this year unlike the year before?" "What if their parents give them the drugs to sell and they don't know any better or know life apart from selling drugs to make money?"

"It's their choice," was his final answer.

I guess he's right. They could go get a job at McDonald's and work for minimum wage and take home $100 after 20 hours a week (on top of school) instead of getting $200 for 30 minutes of "work" early one Saturday morning.

But this isn't a post about drug dealing or the hard choices facing teens and young adults. It's a blog about tipping.

And my bottom line is, it pisses me off that Starbucks and Thundercloud Subs ask for or expect tips (and admittedly sometimes I do tip at these places just because they make me feel so guilty like I owe them something above and beyond the bill for my tuna sandwich with lettuce and tomato, add pickle, on wheat wrapped in paper and put in a plastic bag). And it pisses me off that we comply and don't stand up for or demand tip jars at other fast-food joints on behalf of other poor people. I think it's classist and racist, and I think it's wrong.

There you have it. Ann's Theory of Tippability. Stay tuned next week for Ann's Diatribe Against the FDA or Why the Eff Do We Sell Expired Food to Poor People?

Day Seven Prompt: 5 Years

There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so they be each honest and natural in their hour. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

What would you say to the person you were five years ago? What will you say to the person you’ll be in five years?

To the Ann of five years ago, 28 years old, living in Austin, TX in the year 2006, having just bought a house two months previous and preparing for her upcoming ordination into the ministry I would say: take more vacations and guard your heart. Trust your intuition, unfortunately, you'll be right about most of the men you date. And don't be a pansy. Stand up for yourself. Sue the guy who sold you the house. You'll need the money someday.

To the Ann of 2016, age 38 and counting, I would like to say: I'm sorry if I screwed this up for us. Do the best with what I've left you. We'll make it through. All we've got is each other. The past, and the present. The future is what we make of it.

Day Five Prompt

Life wastes itself while we are preparing to live. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you had one week left to live, would you still be doing what you’re doing now? In what areas of your life are you preparing to live? Take them off your To Do list and add them to a To Stop list. Resolve to only do what makes you come alive.

Bonus: How can your goals improve the present and not keep you in a perpetual “always something better” spiral?

Part of agreeing to write for Trust30 includes receiving "prompts" from other "Authors" across America. I'm starting to figure out that most of these prompts are written for, I don't know, secretaries who are secretly super talented and are wasting away their ability to translate some African dialect into English so that some remote tribe can communicate with the rest of the world that their water is polluted and can someone please bus in some filters or something? without which this tribe would surely perish and thank God that secretary realized her true abilities and stepped up to bat to recognize her gifts and share them with the world.

Something like that.

Obviously I'm not a fan of the prompts. They make me feel like I'm at in High School or at a self-help seminar. Office Space explains it best...

[Peter, Michael, and Samir are chatting as they hang around the printer]

Peter: Our high school guidance counselor used to ask us what you'd do if you had a million dollars and you didn't have to work. And invariably what you'd say was supposed to be your career. So, if you wanted to fix old cars then you're supposed to be an auto mechanic.

Samir: So what did you say?

Peter: I never had an answer. I guess that's why I'm working at Initech.

Michael: No, you're working at Initech because that question is bullshit to begin with. If everyone listened to her, there'd be no janitors, because no one would clean shit up if they had a million dollars.

Samir: You know what I would do if I had a million dollars? I would invest half of it in low risk mutual funds and then take the other half over to my friend Asadulah who works in securities...

Michael: Samir, you're missing the point. The point of the exercise is that you're supposed to figure out what you would want to do if... [printer starts beeping] "PC Load Letter"? What the f*ck does that mean?

I took this writing challenge as a discipline to write daily and write about stuff and stories that are buzzing around in my head that I'm not taking time to write out properly on paper. So I haven’t been following the prompts. But quite frankly, if I had one week left to live, as today’s prompt suggests, I wouldn't sit down at my computer and write those stories out then either.

I actually hate this question. I get what it's meant to achieve. But what I would do if I had one week left to live is consume. Consume, consume, consume. And give, I'd do lots of giving too.

First off, I'd eat out for every single meal, because if I've got one week to live, then I've got money to eat with and I'm not eating one more Amy's organic gluten free pot pie if I've got one week left. The alternative is eating at friend's houses which is okay too. I'd eat at Chris and Michelle's and have Johnson cook some of my favorite meals of his... one of his soups, or his salads, or fish tacos. Point being, I'd eat good food. And I wouldn't worry about calories. I'd have dessert at every meal. And I wouldn't worry about what will clog up my arteries and what's damaging my liver. I'd consume and I'd enjoy it. Mimosas for breakfast, Bloody Marys for lunch, Grapefruit Martinis for dinner and beer on the porch later that night.

Secondly, I'd spend time only with people I love who give me energy. Unfortunately the list is so long of people I'd want to see in that last week, it wouldn't all get done. And that would suck. So I guess in that last week I'd have to double my Pristiq prescription so I wouldn't get sad that I couldn't fit in everyone I love, I couldn't see them one more time or hug them or jump up and down that I'm so happy they're my friend.

If I had a boyfriend, he'd stay at my house every night and we'd go to bed holding hands and we'd wake up holding hands and he'd sleep on the couch for the night I have the girls over for one last slumber party which would happen several nights since there's several groups of girls over the years that I'd want "one last girls' night" with.

I guess, to go back, I'd spend the first morning getting everything ready, for when I was gone, I mean. I've already got all my passwords to all my accounts written in one place and I've already got a will (I'm a little OCD and tend to obsess over death more than most people anyway). But I'd write out my funeral, how I'd want it to be. How there would be NO HYMNS to be sung at it and how the pastor to officiate must please, for the love of God, not use any male pronouns to refer to the Holy One. Of course, this prompt didn't suggest that I would die after than one week and live would go on without me, but if it's everybody's last week too then that would just cause a serious clusterfuck, so let's just assume it's only my last week and move on. I'd show my parents or my sister or maybe Lynnette or Kate Spencer where all my writings are. Where the journals and sermons and hidden blogs are all located just in case someone wanted to finish all those documents titled: My Book and Book # 2 and The New Book that I have scattered around on my computer, honest attempts at making a difference and doing what maybe I'm called to do, but half-heartedly stored away because they weren't good enough, weren't smart enough, and nobody likes me that much anyway.

And I'd bequeath my stuff. The important stuff. Who gets what work of art and which charity I would prefer to get my clothes, shoes, couches, car, electronics, etc. And I guess this would have to extend over into the last day too because after I've eaten out for every meal for a week and bought plane tickets to Missouri and back, I'd have to assess how much money was left and either write checks to the charities I most value or jot down how much each one gets so my parents can figure that out when I'm gone.

But other than that morning of organization, and other than eating delicious food for every meal, I'd just want to be with the people I love. I'd probably ask Hollywood if I could get a sneak peak of the final Harry Potter movie so I can know how it ends. And I might watch Moulin Rouge one last time, or if that feels too sad for my last week, maybe Little Miss Sunshine or Into the Woods (but only if my sister was there). I'd go dancing at Gruene Hall or the Spoke, but I'd rent the place out so that the bouncer that I put at the door says who gets in and who doesn't so all those schmarmy dancers aren't allowed in and to regulate how crowded the dance floor gets. I mean, Cinda and I need room to dance, people!

I guess there is one thing I'd do that only I can do. I'd get my friend Stephen or maybe if there's no limits on this last week, some legit recording studio in Nashville or New York to record me singing songs from musicals I've done in the past. "Honey Bun" from South Pacific, "Last Midnight" from Into the Woods, "I Don't Know How To Love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar, "I'll Tell You What I Think of Him" from King and I - though, maybe not, cause I hated that show, "Pharoah Story" from Joseph, "Soon It's Gonna Rain" from The Fantasticks and I'd get Justin to sing the Matt part, and then maybe a song from the shows I did where I didn't have the lead or shows I did as a kid, or in High School like "Happily Ever After" from Once Upon a Mattress, "Shoeless Joe" from Damn Yankees (both characters I played in High School), "If Ever I Would Leave You" from Camelot (Amy and I were in the chorus of this when my dad directed it - God, that was a fun summer), "The Color Purple" from The Color Purple because I sang that several times at FBC and my mother heard it and loved it, and so did the church, especially Jeanie Spencer. And just because I love the songs, I'd probably do "Defying Gravity" from Wicked, "I Am What I Am" from La Cage Aux Folles, "Rain on My Parade" from Funny Girl, "Maybe This Time" from Cabaret, and of course, the song I've been singing on stages and in showers since I was a little girl, "On My Own" from Les Miserables. And I don't know if my family would want to have this CD. I'd make it with my dad in mind, since he directed the first musicals I was in as an adult, but he may not be into that, I don't know. I know Amy would listen to it though, and she'd burn Brent a copy, so at least two people would have a little something I left behind.

But other than that, I'd eat and drink, and watch the final Harry Potter, be with the people I love and allot my remaining few dollars to charity.

And that, Trust30, is what I'd do if I had only one week left.

Oh Baby!

Today I thought I would write about babies. And if you're sick of hearing about them, I don't want to hear about it, because I'm pretty sure I've got you beat.

From February 2009-January 2010, in just 11 months I welcomed Zoe, Laurel, Lila, Tessla, Lindley, and Arianna into my life. And those kids came to my closest friends. That doesn't include Cane, the Bauer twins, Frannie, Annajean, Win, Edward, Noah, or Marylin most of whose birth annoucements or Christmas cards decorate my fridge. Neither does it include Dillon, Carly, Corbin, Everett, Ace, Roxie or James who were born in the year after that. And neither does it include the two babies my therapist had in the two years I was seeing her. I started off making each kid a photo album on Facebook, but that quickly digressed to a "Babies album" as I just couldn't keep up.In 2010, before I quit my job, one of the steps I took to make sure I was emotionally healthy (because I was not very healthy at that time) was to swear of all baby showers. Cause I mean seriously people, who attends 18 baby showers in two years? That's ridiculous. And if you add in wedding and bridal showers, I was attending a shower for some joyous occasion once or twice a month. That's just too much happiness for one single girl to bear.

And that's the thing about babies and weddings, everyone wants you to be happy for them. And somewhere inside, you probably are.

But truthfully, it gets old.

Imagine 18 of your friends buy a Honda Hybrid. By the time 11, 12, and 13 roll into the driveway, it's old news. You're tired of saying congratulations, and tired of still climbing behind the wheel of your Toyota Corolla. Add to that society's stigma against unwed non-moms suggesting that women are only fulfilled when they're married and bearing children, and suddenly, you've got a single un-mother in her thirties who's a little confused in the head.

Now I know what you're thinking. Statistics say it's the norm now to get married in your thirties. But guess what friends, those statistics came out of New York, and I live in Texas. And while adopting babies from Haiti are all the rage among conservatives (thank you earthquake mission trips) and adopting babies from China are all the rage among rich people (thank you Sex and the City), there's still a stigma attached to adoption. "They must have had problems getting pregnant..." "Well, I heard she..." Virtually no one adopts just because they want to adopt.

Except me. And I'm dating a man who wants to have (or have his wife have) kids because of his own personal experiences with adoption. Great. But that's a post for another time.

So back to the babies.

I didn't mean for this post to be a diatribe against child-bearing adults or their prodginy. I wanted to talk about Tessla, my nanny charge and some of the other beloved babies in my life. But talking about her requires first admitting a few other things.

Truthfully, now, I'm doing a lot better with the whole baby thing. If I get invited to a shower (and of course, I've got one to attend next weekend), I no longer break out in hives. But some people are so ignorant of the way society talks about women and child-bearing, it drives me crazy! For example, here's a conversation a friend of mine had with her supervisor five months after her daughter was born. In their monthly meeting, the supervisor asked my friend, "So, has being a mother changed the way you view counseling or the way you relate to your patients?"

"No," she said.

Awesome. "Thank god," was my response. Thank God it didn't change the way she does her job because to say so suggests a certain enlightenment or change in perspective or fulfillment afforded women who have children. Furthermore, it denotes a level of inadequacy in women who don't have children.

Like: because I'm not a mom, I somehow can't relate to the world in my full potential.

And it's not that I don't think having a baby should change you. It should. But everything you experience in life should change you (hopefully for the better, or at least for a wider-

worldview). The idea that women are only really complete or cognizant or edified or illumined or whatever once they've had children has got to go.

But again, I've digressed, so let me try a third time.

Disclaimer: for those of you who aren't moms, I am not writing this blog to be a smug-pseudo-mother. And if you're as fed up with the baby talk as I was, you have my blessing to stop reading now. (However, the BEST smug pregnant woman song/skit can be found here written by two comedians in LA who've also appeared on shows like Gilmore Girls, Pushing Daisies, Scrubs, and Million Dollar Baby. It's awesome. And you've got to see it. But don't watch it if you're pregnant and emotional or if you have no sense of humor). Again, I am not writing this blog to be a smug-pseudo-mother. I'm writing this blog about the babies in my life and about my job, and I am currently employed part-time (32-40 hours a week) as a nanny. And I want to write about how ridiculously delightful my little charge is. But we must start at the beginning...

First off, there was Zoe.

When I met Zoe, the first words out of my mouth were sung: "Welcome outside of your mother's womb, I know it is frightening but now there's more room." (from "Welcome" by Lori Chaffer off her album 1Beginning) My acquaintances and friends had been having babies off and on since college, but this was the first one to really come into my inner circle, to change the lives of two people I called my best friends. And like Adam did when he saw the wonder of Eve, so did I upon holding Zoe Hilel: I sang. Her father, Peter, watched me and said it couldn't have been a more appropriate response.

Then came Laurel. Literally, out of her mother's vajayjay and onto the bed. I saw it. I was there.

I was supposed to be there for her mother who wanted women surrounding her at her daughter's birth. I was there as her friend, her sister was to take pictures, and her mom was to gush at her first grandbabby. However, Michelle's laboring went so quickly and she was such a champ that she talked herself out of believing she was really in labor for like 6 hours (the only time I will ever know more than Michelle when it comes to childbirth was that day. I knew she was in labor and that baby was coming, and when the doulah finally arrived she confirmed my suspicion and whisked Michelle off to the midwife clinic immediately). So when she finally got to the birthing center, that baby was out in like 20 minutes. Her sister missed it, her mom missed it. So there I was, trying to capture the crowning of the head on camera. I was watching Michelle push so hard that tears came out of her eyes, though I wouldn't say she was crying, I was watching the birth of a baby, something I've feared for years and it was going so quickly and so seamlessly that when Michelle sort of burped that baby out onto the bed, (the actual move from the birth canal out into the bedroom is very fast) I thought for several months afterwards that hell, I could do that too someday!

I changed my mind after Lila came into the world. Somewhere in there I acquired the reputation of being a baby photographer, so when the first couple I ever married asked me to be there for their daughter's birth, I said sure! Laurel's birth was wonderful and exciting and I'll never forget it. This woman who feared giving birth more than the boogieman suddenly heard herself saying, I'd love to help out at the birth. And good thing too. For while Patrick and Angela also chose to give birth at a birthing center, it was a much longer and more painful process.

Fortunately, I'd been at all of Chris and Michelle's meetings with their doulah (not sure how that happened except I practically lived at their house over at 5209). So as 9 o'clock became midnight and midnight turned to 2am, and their midwife just sat there watching from a chair, I began to take as active a role in helping that baby get out as Patrick did. "Let's try squatting," I suggested. "How about the shower?" "Tie this cloth over the door, close the door, hold on and hang from it. Let your body relax." "Let's try the tub now," anything I could remember Chris and Michelle's doulah telling them, I offered to Angela. She was in so much pain and was so tired. I finally napped somewhere in the wee hours of the morning so that when the pushing began around 4 or 5, I was the only one refreshed enough to get through it. Angela fell asleep in the 30 seconds she had between every contraction. Patrick looked exhausted and just lay on the bed beside her. And the midwife crouched down near her feet poking and proding and doing whatever they do to make sure the baby is okay. I saw things I was never meant to see that night and decided then and there that my first intuition about adopting had been correct. I was not designed to bear children. How in the world we got that little alien out of Angela's stomach is beyond my comprehension, but I now knew I would not be getting myself in the same predicament.

Because then I had to go home, get dressed and preach a sermon in big church.

Now that was a night.

When Lindley was born, I got to spend lots of time with her considering she lives in Nashville. I flew out to see her when she was 2 months or so and spitting up more than any creature I'd ever seen. Then again on my 32nd birthday, I was in Nashville for the Festival of Homiletics (a preaching convention) and appropriately so, she's the first baby I ever took with me to a conference. And like a child after my own heart, she cried when the organ played and quietly listened during the sermons. Her parents met as worship leader and pastor at a camp some seven years prior and her mother and I had been best friends (and cohorts in crime) at seminary, so I felt an obligation to introduce her to the theology of Tom Long, Lauren Winner, A.J. Levine and Will Willimon. Plus, her parents needed a babysitter that day.

I admit, by the time Tessla was born, I was getting a little tired of the babies. Plus, I was worried about how my poorer friends were gonna pay for those little monsters... diapers, baby wipes, cheerios, clothes they outgrow in two weeks. They're expensive little suckers. But Tessla was sweet just like the others and her parents seemed happy.

Then when she turned three months old, the shit hit the fan and everything changed. Her mother got lymphoma and went through chemo-therapy and lost all her hair and got sick but got well and finally everyone relaxed. Then I quit my job and she asked me if I wanted to nanny for Tessla for a while, so I agreed. And then, when Tessla was eleven months old, we found out the cancer came back.

But I've written about all that before. And this blog isn't about mamas, it's about babies, so let me tell you about Tessla.

First of all, she's way smarter than me.

She knows a ton of sign language. Now, some of this I taught her and some of it she learned from Baby Einstein, but check out her vocab: eat, more, please, thank you, milk, water, juice, cereal, all done, mommy, daddy, Aunt Heather, Uncle Marcus, Ann (and she made up the sign for me!!), baby, help, ball, story, library, garden, shoes, cat, dog, bird, fish, tree, play, bath, sleep, pacifier (she made that sign up too) and... I'm sure I'm forgetting some.

She can even make sentences. One day we were playing at Chris and Michelle's house, and their daughter Laurel, who is almost two now, began crying and throwing a fit. Tessla looked at me with wide eyes and made two signs one right after the other: "baby" and "asleep." I interpreted her to mean "the baby is sleepy," or perhaps "the baby needs to go to sleep." Either way, I was pretty proud of that first sentence.

And she can verbally say lots of words with her mouth too. I think her first words were dirt (her father is a landscape architech), cat, dog (which both her parents, aunt & uncle, and I all have), da da, shoes, roar (she loves lions), yellow, uh oh (she got that one from me), yeah, no, apple, banana (which she says by sticking her tongue out the side of her mouth and saying yayaya), pickle and mama. Those are the big ones. Now she blabbers all the time, and I just pretend to understand her. Sometimes she talks to me and looks at me like I should be able to understand her, and other times she talks to herself, laughing at her own jokes and having a grand old time.

She smiles and sometimes laughs when it's time to take a nap and I (finally) put her in her crib. She's a child of routine and when I put her down for a nap I change her diaper, close the bedroom curtains (this is when she recognizes what's coming next and begins to giggle), hand her the pacifier, place her in the crib, lay the blanket on top of her, turn on the sound machine, say goodnight, and close the door. She loves it. All my mommy friends hate me. Even at my house if she's ready for a nap and I don't seem inclined to put her down anytime in the near future, she'll walk to the bedroom that she sleeps in and bang on the door until I go open it for her and ask if she's ready to go to sleep.

She's a hoot. And I could seriously post a thousand pictures of her on here, but I'll spare you. Again, I don't want to be a smug nanny.

But I did want to tell you a little about my life and my job and the babies in my life. And tell you I'm happy and healthy and hoping all my patience won't get used up on Tessla and the others in case I do ever get to adopt my own children someday. And I want to apologize if I skipped your baby shower at some point over the last two years. But trust me, you wouldn't have wanted this old hag there anyway. I'm a cat lady. I smell funny.

A Birthday and A Boy

He was late. I wasn’t surprised. He is often late. He’s unorganized, loves to sleep, and lives out of town. It’s forgivable, but annoying.

I calmly applied make-up to my starting-to-show-my-age face. I would turn 33 at approximately 4:10pm that day and wanted to look my best despite that to celebrate the day of my birth, my friends and I were mostly exercising, beginning with kayaking on Lady Bird Lake. But you never know when will be the perfect opportunity for a photo, and since my boyfriend who was also to be joining us was late, I applied make-up to my already hardening face.

It’s not like he didn’t know what time to be there. After all, I had sent out three detailed emails with the schedule in the days prior to my birthday. Weeks before, he and I had agreed that he would take the day off, we discussed the festivities to be planned, and I sent out reminder emails to the parties involved with explicit instructions on what time to be where and with what in tow.

This is what happens when a woman who’s OCD dates a man who’s ADD; inevitably one of them ends up overcompensating either with organization or minute attention to inordinate detail. Because I’m the one who’s OCD, I had them both covered.

Not only that, but I’d gone over my birthday wish-list with him so there would be no repeat of Halloween or Christmas (neither of which near-catastrophies I care to rehash now). The list was, of course, posted on my blog for the whole world to go over, but since he rarely reads my blog I knew that was a base I needed to cover. Additionally, we’d gone to visit several stores that had clothing or other items I fancied, and had perused the merchandise together. We’d even gone to my favorite piercing salon that sells (real!) diamond nose rings which avid readers of my blog will remember I have been coveting now for years.

But the morning of my birthday, he was late. So late, that I left without him for the lake.

“Don’t cry,” I told myself. "Don’t let him ruin this day. You get to choose your own attitude; you choose how to respond to this." Michelle called to ask where I was. “I’m close,” I responded, “but the boyfriend’s not with me.”

He called when I had almost reached the kayak rental booth. “I’m at your house.”

“I’m at the lake.”

“Should I grab your bike?” (We were going to bike, after kayaking, to Opal Divine’s on 6^th Street).

“I guess.”

Chris and Michelle were waving as I began down the path toward the lake and the long row of kayaks. “Happy birthday!” they cried, cheerier than normal.

“You can ride with Michelle and I’ll kayak by myself,” Chris said, relieving any anxiety about me now kayaking alone. “I’m sorry about poopy-head.”

“Poopy-head’s on his way.”

Chris and Michelle are real troopers. They’ve seen me go through more men and been more accommodating and supportive and hospitable and a million other adjectives that describe what the best friends of a serial dater must find themselves embodying lest they perish in the process. They’ve been cordial to the ones they’ve hated and grieved the ones we loved and lost. They would make the most of this for my sake. And we would all be in the water together.

“Don’t worry, I won’t start the clock til you enter the lake,” the guy with the newspaper working the kayak stand told us. He’d managed to pick up on the fact that it was not only my birthday but that we were killing time trying on different life jackets and posing for pictures with paddles while waiting for my boyfriend.

“Thank you.”

The boyfriend arrived shortly thereafter. He was anxious and visibly frustrated. And his clothes weren’t exact kayak appropriate, but part of the tardiness had been that he wasn’t able to finish his laundry. I tried not to be short with him, but found my usual biting criticisms chomping at the bit when trapped in a small kayak in the middle of a huge lake with a boyfriend who was an hour and a half late and kept paddling a different direction than I wanted to go.

But we had a great time despite the minor grievances. We even got to see the last few minutes of some repelling dancers rehearsing off the side of the old Light and Power building. Yes, there are people in Austin who do synchronized repelling and spinning and leaping while 200 feet above the ground, or better yet, above water.

After returning the kayaks when our hour was up, we hiked back up to the cars and got out the bikes to pump the tires and be one our way. However, the tube was punctured on my bike. So Chris and Michelle headed on (since we were behind in the schedule and were meeting people at the restaurant) while boyfriend and I decided what to do. We chose to throw the bikes back into his jeep and just drive to Opal’s.

Lunch was super. Gabe, Bethany and Tessla were there waiting, and once our waitress spotted us, I ordered my favorite drink (a Texas Red), my favorite appetizer (the Divine Quesadillas) and my favorite meal (a Tuna Sandwich on wheat with no onions and of course French Fries). Yum! Of course, I checked in those of us without privacy settings on Facebook, and uploaded a picture of the delicious beverage. Plenty more pics (hipstamatic and regular) were taken of Tessla gobbling down her mac ‘n cheese. And the quote of the day was delivered by Gabe: “Ann, have you ever considered rapping?”

Awesome. Not even going to give you the context.

Once full, we decided it was time to head to our next activity: stuffing our stuffed bodies into swimsuits to lay out by Chris and Michelle’s apartment pool. We said good-bye to the Chances who had to return to work and we took off, Chris and Michelle on bike and boyfriend and I in our cars.

“Let’s head to a bike shop to get a tube for your bike first though,” he suggested and I complied. We found a local bike store and once inside began perusing the items. We quickly found the tube we needed and then had to hold each other back from buying everything else we might ever need for a bike. That store was very dangerous.

“I don’t have a bike lock.”

“You need a new seat.”

“I love these pink handles.”

“Let’s ask about bike pumps.”

In the end, we left the store with a tube and a bike pump, despite my objections. “Why do I need a bike pump when the only time I ride my bike is when I’m with either you or Chris, and you both have pumps I can use?” But he bought it anyway because sometimes he’s just as bull-headed as I am.

When we got out to our cars, he handed me the tube and bike pump and said, “Happy birthday,” sheepishly shrugging his shoulders and managing a smile.

Oh my god, he didn’t get me a real present.

“Thanks,” I said, and hurriedly closed the door on my car and blinked a few times before pulling out of the parking lot and heading on to Chris and Michelle’s.

My heart sank. He didn’t get me a present.

He bought me a tube and a bike pump which I didn’t even want. He bought me a present he wanted. Wanted me to have, but still - something I didn’t want or need. I’ve been talking about the importance of this birthday for a month and had the whole day planned, pro-actively, to make sure I spent it doing things I enjoy with people I enjoy, and he showed up an hour and a half late and couldn’t plan ahead enough to buy me a real present, something meaningful that suggested he cares?

I was dying. While I know presents are not the point of birthdays or holidays, they are nevertheless important to me. I’m a gift-giver. I love picking out things that are special that I think people will like and when I have money, I buy those things, write a little card, and give the gift. I love it. And I love receiving gifts the same way. It’s my love language. I blame my father who spoiled us as little girls with presents hidden in the pockets of trench coats, sitting in the carseats when we opened the door, discovered at the end of treasure hunts with clues we had to decipher to find. But right now, I was blaming the boyfriend. My no good, never on time, couldn’t plan ahead if his life depended on it, lazy ass boyfriend who I know just slept all day on Monday and even came into Austin on Tuesday for a voice lesson (and could have just swung by Parts & Labor my favorite store to grab a tee-shirt or necklace), didn’t get me a present.

I got a bike tube and pump that he bought in front of me and handed to me at the car.

I have to end this, I thought. I can’t keep getting disappointed at every holiday. Hell, we broke up once over Christmas, why not break up for good on my birthday?! Seems sadly perfect! It's just that I can’t keep doing this. I know I’m high maintenance, but I’m not that horrible of a person. All I want is for him to take off work one day and show up on time with a present in his hand. Surely some boy somewhere likes me enough to bring me a present on my birthday!

My mind began reeling through the dates I’ve had over the last few years. None of them very notable and none of them lasted very long. Then my mind moved to sadder more far away places, and played over the men who made it into the small corners of my heart and left a little bit of themselves inside. I grew more frustrated and even frightened. “All I want is a diamond nose ring!” I cried out loud in my car choking back the tears. Is that too much to ask?

I felt like Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping. All she wanted was a stamp in her passport that said “Italy.” All I wanted was, well, a nose ring. And love. I guess we both wanted the love presupposed behind the stamp and the stud.

We arrived at Chris and Michelle’s and I got out of my car resigned to the fact that I would have to break up with the boyfriend… tomorrow. No sense ruining today with that. I mean, I’d bought us tickets to the theater for later that night! I was just going to have to put on my game face and get through the rest of the day.

“I got you one more thing at the bike store,” the boyfriend said, getting out of his car. “While you were in the bathroom.” He handed me a small box. “It’s a patch kit.”

“Thanks,” I replied, un-enthused, and opened the trunk of my car to get out the cooler for the pool.

“Open the kit.”

“Why?”

“So you can see what’s in it.”

I was so pissed. I pulled open the box. Why did he have to show me how the patch kit works right now? I don’t care about this! Could he be more clueless?

I pulled a little plastic bag out of the kit.

“What’s that?” he prompted me.

“A pin.”

“No…”

I looked again, and against my will, a smile began to creep onto my face. “Is it a nose ring?” I asked, incredulous. He began jumping up and down, pleased not only that he’d pleased me, but surprised me too.

“But I’m so mad at you!” I said, smiling through my shame. “I thought…” I trailed off.

I thought. I thought. I thought. All I ever do is think. I analyze and over-analyze and assume that people will never change and that I’ll never find love. Not that love comes in a 1/8 caret stud that gets shoved up one’s nose, but it’s the symbolism of the matter. I assume and judge and exhaust myself while hope battles despair inside my brain and resignation wins in my heart. Or because I can’t stand to be made a fool, I end up alone again.

But not right now. Right now I am not alone. I may feel a fool, but I'm not alone. Right now I may be a repentant and embarrassed girl who will cry if she wants to on her birthday, but at least I’m with a man who, as it turns out, loves me anyway. A man who loves me despite my lists and organization and obsession with holidays. A man who loves me enough to hide a real diamond nose ring in a bicycle patch kit while I’m in the next car over practicing my break-up speech.

No wonder they say fools fall in love...

Trust Me

You may have noticed the new icon on the right of my blog. Trust 30. It's a challenge set forth by The Domino Project in honor of Ralph Waldo Emmerson's 208th birthday. Participants will write for 30 days to hopefully inspire ourselves to be honest visionaries, reflecting and creating direction for our own futures.

Additionally, each day, I'll receive in my mailbox and inspiration thought or essay by one of 30 authors chosen to speak to this challenge. And the fun part of that is, one of the featured authors is my friend, Sam Davidson whom I have written about and referenced numerous times on this blog.

Finally, The Domino Project is releasing a collectible edition of Self-Reliance that looks really sweet. But unfortunately, they only made 100 books and they're all gone. :( So you'll have to read my work instead, I guess...

It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

So we're off. Thirty days of writing. Starting June 1st. Go.

Perry May Parry for the White House... Stab Me Now.

So the man who, as recently as 2009, said that it was conceivable the Texas may secede from the Union (um... the United States of America) provided things in our government led by the abominable President Obama didn't change soon, is now potentially running himself for President of the Union he believes so strongly in that he may lead us Texans to abandon.

Potential announcement here as recorded by Austin's own Statesman.

What a dumbass. Sorry, Grandma. But this guy is a real jerk. He's screwed up so much for Texans that he can't do much more damage here, so he needs to move on to bigger and better governments to manage and people to ruin.

I seriously loathe this man. We've only ever agreed on one thing: Arizona's law allowing racial profiling, I mean, law to ensure that their precious state wasn't being invaded by aliens (of the Mexican persuasion) was wrong and immoral. But that's the only nice thing I have to say about Governor Perry. And since Grandmother taught me that if I can't say anything nice to not say anything at all, I'm stopping there.

33 Wishes... sort of.

It's here. Better late than never, eh? This is my Wish List for my 33rd Birthday which will be upon us in eight days. While my therapist suggested I register for gifts like women would for weddings or baby showers (debunking the idea that the community only helps provide for a woman if she's getting married or having a baby), I'm not ready for that. However, I will categorically share my wish list in three parts: What I Want, What I Need and... Be My Patron. Check it out...

WHAT I WANT

• Gift certificates to Parts & Labor (my favorite local store in Austin), Creatures (another local Austin treasure - it and P&L are located on South Congress just south of Riverside) or Anthropologie!
• Full sized sheets for my bed (with two queen sized pillowcases) in neutral colors: white, cream or beige with minimum 400 thread count.
• A curved curtain rod like this one (double rod!) at Bed Bath and Beyond or this cheaper one.
• A new shower head like this one (also found at BB&B) with a "finger pause button" for when you're shampooing, shaving, etc. (awesome!)
• a blender (for margaritas and smoothies - would like to try some new healthy alternatives) and maybe a vegetarian smoothie cook book (P.S. don't tell anyone I asked for a cook book. I'll never live it down).
• a bar stool like this one at Ikea in black.
• Other things I love... Books!... Candles!... Cool Belt Buckles!... Earrings and Rings!... Shoes (size 6)!... Scrapbooking stickers and stuff!... and Fingernail polish: one day a month or two ago I just decided that for the first time in my life, I wanted to wear bold, bright nail polish. But not your normal red or pink or brown. I want fun colors!...

WHAT I NEED

• New size 6 tennis shoes for walking, jogging and exercising (haven't had a new pair of in years and am running another 1/2 maraton relay in October).
• Fillings on six teeth (approx $200 a tooth)

So this final section is things I would like to have but can't currently afford. They are things that, if I lived in the 1800s or early 1900s I could maybe get or do because I am artist and I would possibly have a patron. That patron would sponsored me and my art allowing me time to write and perform and not worry about how to pay the bills...

BE MY PATRON

• Headshots by Claire McAdams. $250. She's local, she's young, her work is amazing, and I really need a good headshot for auditions.
• Dance classes at Ballet Austin in Ballet, Modern or Broadway Jazz. They sell "Class-cards." For a 4 class-card it's $60, an 8 class-card is $110, 12 classes is $150, 16 is $190 and a 20 class-card is $220.
• My hair returned to it's more natural and more likable red-brown color (I'm still currently sporting the leftover blonde Evita hair now with two inches are dark roots!) I go to "gypsecowgirl" at Topaz Salon on South Lamar. $120-160.
• Buy me a day to write. I earn $15/hour babysitting (and work 8-10 hour days) and approximately $10/hour acting (if I get cast in a show that pays!). So, buy me a "writing day" for $120 and I'll take a day off work and devote 8 hours to working on my book or buy me a writer's block for $40 and I'll devote four hours of a weekend to writing (either way, you'll get your name in my list of thank you's when/if the book is published!).
• Voice lessons... in addition to getting another Masters in Minority Literature, I'm also considering another Masters in Vocal Performance. If so, I have to have the recommendation of a vocal coach to even apply to schools. And that costs money. Depending on the teacher, between $50 and $100 a lesson...

Born This Way: my song and my tee-shirt

If you're a fan of Glee, then hopefully you caught last week's episode (Season 2, Episode 18) about loving yourself as you are and living life to the fullest. My friend, Sam, has been all up on following your dream, living the life you always imagined, and being your best. From getting married to dying for a dream, Sam is always asking his readers to be uniquely them, to create from that conviction, and to simply get serious and live life, or maybe to seriously, simply live.

I too have been trying to do that in my own life. I quit my job last year to do theater full time (check that off), write more (picked up the pencil, but no check mark yet), and get more speaking and preaching gigs (ugh, I can't do this on my own... feel free to pick up the phone for me and hook a sista up) in addition to being more available to my friends (I'm a nanny for one of my bestie's - well, actually her 17 month old daughter - who was twice diagnosed with cancer last year) and my family (I hope to attend more graduations, retirements and holidays from here on out). Check and check on those.

But it's hard to live life to the fullest. Sometimes there are doubts. Sometimes there is self-pity. Sometimes there is self-deprecation. And sometimes there is the stopping of living life fully all together.

Glee sort of tackles that this week. Much of it has to do with image issues and self-loathing typical of teenagers, but certainly not limited to them (I mean, have you seen my nose? or how about my super round face? or my ass?!). However, another, more challenging aspect of last week's episode began to tackle bigger prejudices. Boldly, Glee has taken on homosexuality and bullying. And it's not just a tipped hat to the gay guy who dresses nicely and sings in the choir. One of the a gorgeous, Latino, cheerleaders is a closet lesbian. And one of the top football players is homosexual. But in addition to these prejudices, now Glee's taking on mental health disorders as School Counselor, Emma, discovers her OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is a little OOC (out of control).

So when Rachel (the star of Glee Club) decides she wants a nose job so she can look like Quinn (the former captain of the Cheerio Cheerleaders), Mr. Schu steps in. And everyone makes tee-shirts confessing what they wish were different about them, what they've been ashamed of before, what they've let plague their thoughts so that they couldn't be who they were born to be. And we get an array of shirts:

After first writing GINGER, confessing her embarrassment at the color of her hair and the critiques it brought her in High School, Emma finally changes her shirt and writes, OCD. Mr. Schu writes BUTT CHIN, Brittany writes I'M WITH STUPID with an arrow pointing up to her brain and Puck writes the same with an arrow pointing down to his... dumbstick. Finn writes CAN'T DANCE, Mike writes CAN'T SING, Tina writes BROWN EYES and Mercedes writes NO WEAVE. In addition, they sing songs by reject artists who didn't make it as far as they really should have. They sing songs about claiming who you are. And of course, they end the episode performing Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" and wearing their tee-shirts. Check it out.

So that got me thinking, what would be on my tee-shirt? And what song would I sing? It was easy to find an answer to the latter. I'd consider 32 Flavors by Ani DiFranco, Beautiful by Christina Aguilera, but would probably pick I Am What I Am from La Cage Aux Folles, which has been my favorite song since I was a little girl and paraded around my parents house performing it until someone told me to shut up and quit singing for God's sake.

As for my tee-shirt? Well I've already mentioned my ski slope of a nose, my round face and matching bottom. But there were other things too... WEIRD maybe. I learned to embrace it as a child (or at least put up a good front) when I would respond, "Thanks, I take that as a compliment," whenever one of the kids in grade school would say, "You're so weird." In college, I learned to write, CLINICAL DEPRESSION on my metaphorical tee-shirt and at the advice of a therapist, chose to let God use me and my illness to help other people through hard times instead of resenting life and closing myself off to it. But now, maybe now I would write PERFORMER. Because for as impractical as it seems, and for as long as I've tried to just keep it a hobby, for as long as I've pushed it to the back burner because really, I'm an academic who should quit meddling in the arts... because now, it's just what I want to do. I am a singer and an actor and an actor who sings and a singer who acts. And I love performing anywhere, in churches, on the stage, in bars or clubs, at children's birthday parties (I would totally dress up as Mary Poppins or the Little Mermaid and crash your kids bday!). But owning that is hard. So is owning WRITER. So maybe that would be on my tee-shirt too. I write and write but I never publish. I set goal after goal of getting out a book but always find some reason to let it go. Everyone writes better than me, has more to say, employs better metaphors... whatever. You name the excuse and I've used it. So maybe WRITER would be on the shirt.

When I started writing this blog, I wasn't sure what would come out. I figured I'd write about how I love the song "I Am What I Am" and how I'm always afraid someone will find out I have a mental health disorder and will look at me differently. But I guess that's another perk of writing, it exposes how we really feel. And right now, I want to write. And perform. And I'm taking big steps (if hard steps) in one (do you know how many times I audition but am not cast?), and little steps in the other (at least I'm publishing my blogs!).

But maybe if I keep learning from art (Yes, I just called Glee art. Get over it.), I'll muster the courage to wear my shirts proudly, and eventually retire them for their irrelevance. And maybe I'll go to Curtain Call or some other open mic night one evening in Austin and sing "I Am What I Am" (even though I'm a girl and I'm not gay). And maybe one day I'll make theater my profession. And maybe one day I'll write a book, and go to Barnes and Noble and see it for sale on the shelf.

But in the meantime, maybe I'll just get used to saying, I was born this way... and smile... and mean it.

Stop the World, I Want To Get Off!

I started crying. About three minutes before the show ended. I never cry in live theater. The audience may think I'm crying (that is why they call it acting), but in neither real life or theater, can I turn on the tears. They're either there or they aren't. And this weekend they were. Saturday night. And then again at the Sunday matinee after my parents flew back to Missouri.

You see, I'm performing as a Chorus Girl (#8 to be exact... if you line us up alphabetically) in Austin Playhouse's production of Stop the World I Want To Get Off. And my parents met performing in this show 44 years ago at William Jewell College.

"The funny thing about a circle is, it has no beginning and no end," Littlechap concludes. And as I sat there onstage behind him in my 60's, Brittish, half-plastic, hemline-well-above-my-knees costume, my normally dry eyes swelled with tears and I hoped no one would notice as the mood would quickly shift and I would have to be all smiles for the final scene.

My parents were watching their daughter perform roles they had played themselves 44 years ago when my father was young and agile and my mother ironed her hair straight. This was before thoughts of marriage, parenting or grand-pet-parenting was even a reason to pause or cry "stop the world!" altogether.

They never imagined me and I never imagined myself playing a role in this show before their eyes. And the circle keeps on going.

Here we are, Chorus Girl and Littlechap 2011 and Littlechap and Chorus Girl 1967...

I don't actually like the show. I probably shouldn't say that because now you won't come see it. Don't get me wrong, it's conceptually compelling, the music is classic and the it's a nice history lesson (as history will always repeat itself lest we learn from it), but it's a show about a man, Littlechap, who basically embodies everything I hate about men. It's a sexist, racist, period piece that is ultimately a comedy as it tells an (albeit too late) redemptive story of a man realizing the folly of his grandiose dreams, insatiable lust, superficial successes and wasted relationships. (Please stay tuned for a post entitled, "A Feminist Response to Stop the World, I Want To Get Off, or Why Not All Men Are Grasshoppers.")

The show actually turns 50 this year (I must have a knack for doing timely shows... remember The Fantasticks last year on its 50th Birthday? or Inherit the Wind on the bicentenary anniversary of Darwin's birth in 09?) And it is not a show to be seen by the faint of heart. And by that I mean, if you don't have an appreciation for this type of theater (think Roar of the Greasepaint, Smell of the Crowd or even The Fantasticks for that matter), then you may not understand this work of art. Similarly, if you're not well versed in history (or if you're under 65), most of the jokes, references and cultural stereotypes will be over your head. In other words, unless you're a theater freak or a history buff, you may not love this show.

But, the performances are wonderful in case you do think you'd appreciate this fun musical. Rick Roemer as Littlechap is superb and as my father said, "the role is so easy to overact, but Rick did a beautiful job and showed much honesty with the character." Angela Davis as Evie (and Anya, Isla and Gennie) has amazing accents and characterization for all her roles. And, quite frankly, I'm pretty awesome as Chorus Girl #8. :)

To buy tickets (HALF PRICE for STUDENTS!!) to this super show at one of Austin's premier professional theaters, grab them online or call the box office at 512-476-0084.

Famous songs from the show are "What Kind of Fool Am I?," "Gonna Build a Mountain," and "Once In a Lifetime." Famous people to play these roles include Joel Grey as Littlechap. And, of course, it was made into a movie in 1966.

Stop the World - I Want To Get Off! debuted on The West End 50 years ago, is set in a circus, and tells the timeless tale of Littlechap, a clown who conquers the world but loses himself. The story will be told through song, dance, drama and the artistry of the Austin Playhouse acting company. The show is a cherished musical classic - a boundless, shameless, and humorously entertaining production. (Yes, I stole this piece of promo from the website.)

And if you need a little help with context, here's some helpful cultural and historical reminders...

• Lumbered: to walk or move with heaviness, awkwardness or clumsiness, slang for imprisoned or burdened, used as a euphemism for being "screwed" (but not in the good way).
• Quid: slang for the brittish currency (the pound).
• Fag: slang for cigaratte.
• Stalingrad: one of the bloodiest battles during WWII in which the Allies defeated Germany and secured the eastern world from their control. It's name was changed to Volgograd in the 60s during de-Stalinization of the country.
• Neuremburg: location of Allies military trials prosecuting prominent members of the political, military, and economic leadership of the defeated German Nazis.
• Butterfield 8: an oscar winning movie where Liz Taylor plays a call girl.
• Presidents: Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1953-1961. John F. Kennedy, 1961-1963.
• Luftwaffe: generic German word for air force.

Again, to buy tickets, grab them online or call the box office at 512-476-0084. And maybe this little fool will see you there...

He Is Risen! He Is Risen, Indeed!

When Tessla (my nanny charge) and I were on a walk earlier this month, we passed by a colorful driveway. And while we often get the free viewing of chalk art by the children and grandchildren in this Cedar Park neighborhood, I couldn't help but pull out my phone and snap a picture of this driveway.

As the chalk drawing admonishes, Happy Easter! And please, pay no mind to the spaceship further up the driveway. I'm sure that was not intended to be a commentary on the validity of Jesus' resurrection or his later ascension. Although since the FBI released information this month regarding the circular disks and alien bodies found in Roswell, NM, who knows?! Maybe after leaving the Milky Way Galaxy, Jesus stopped by the Pinwheel Galaxy. I guess that'll just have to be one of those questions we ask God when we finally meet Her. (It'll be right after I ask Her about mosquitoes and red fire ants. I mean really. What was She thinking?)

Anyway, Happy Easter. He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

Finally a Post on America's Budget Problems, Or Why Jesus Would Still Get Killed Today

Part of the reason scholars say Jesus died on what is now called "Good Friday" is because of the subversive nature of his message against the empire. This video breaks down the agenda of the majority party in the House, and while you or I may not agree with all of the solutions they offer, it is helpful to see the pictograph of the financial facts about where the government really spends their money...

Particularly troubling to me is not even the attempted de-funding of PBS (though that did piss me off), but the fact that our military budget received no cuts. And yet, currently, we are engaged in three wars and have been in war for the longest time ever in America's history as a nation. Trillions of dollars already spent. (For those who say the problem is Democrats and their spending, I remind them of the wars that Bush 1 & 2 got us in and the TRILLIONS of dollars that cost us. That's a lot of zeros people. $x,xxx,xxx,xxx,xxx) And God only knows how much more (money) that will cost us. As an older, wiser Littlechap notes when addressing the nation in Stop the World I Want To Get Off (the show I'm doing right now), "Too much has been screwed up for too long for too many by two few." Sadly, he's correct.

My grandmother sent me a letter a few months ago in which she wrote, "I am concerned about the world as a whole, and USA especially. I have never complained of taxes. I can’t fix pot holes, keep up highways, provide police and fire protection, help with the homeless and those much less fortunate than I, and I appreciate a government who will do it for me. I remember the first income tax I ever paid, and how proud I was that I was earning enough money to pay taxes. What is with these people who earn hundreds of thousands of dollars, and are so afraid taxes are going up?"

How proud I was to pay my taxes?! My how the world has changed. She continues, "Worried about the deficit – raise taxes I say. But on those who can afford it. I feel for friends who are living on their social security checks – because everything – everything, is going up. Utilities, gas, milk, bread, everything. I don’t know how they get by. Even those who have two wage earners, if it is small wages must be suffering – and single parents. But to those who are earning many thousands and up, I say divvy up guys!"

You see, huge companies in America aren't paying their taxes. Take General Electric who made over $5 billion of profit (in the US) and paid ZERO taxes. (And that doesn't count the rest of GE's profits made overseas that are not subject to our taxes unless they spend that money in the US). From 9 Things the Rich Don't Want You To Know About Taxes "It's true that the top 1 percent of wage earners paid 38% of the federal income taxes in 2008 (the most recent year for which data is available). But people forget that the income tax is less than half of the federal taxes and only one-fifth of taxes at all levels of government. In Wisconsin, Terrance Wall, who unsuccessfully (shocker) sought the Republican nomination for U.S. Senate in 2010, paid no income taxes on as much as $14 million of recent income, his disclosure forms showed. Asked about his living tax-free while working people pay taxes, he had a simple response: Everyone should pay less." What a jerk.

So, not only are the individual millionaires and billionaires not paying their taxes, but neither are giant corporations. But, instead of taxing these people who have been getting away with ripping off their country (what patriots, huh?), instead of cutting military costs, the House has proposed cuts to many of the programs vital to our country today including Medicare for the elderly and education for our children. And as for wellness exams for women, birth control, HPV prevention? Gotta get rid of that! (Only 2% of what Planned Parenthood does is actual abortions which are currently legal in America and not funded by the government, but privately). In other words, let's continue to privilege the already privileged and make life more challenging for the middle class, poverty-stricken, women, children and elderly.

Wow.

Want some figures? The budget proposed by the House cuts $8.5 billion from low-income housing, but keeps $8.4 billion for deductions on people's 2nd vacation homes (as in they've already got house #1 that they live in, and their vacation house #2, but this references house #3, their second vacation home). It cuts $2.5 billion for home heating for the poor, but keeps $2.5 billion in offshore drilling subsidies. It cuts funding for 10 million malaria bed nets that keep kids from dying, and not one line item from military spending.

I'm reminded of the popular Facebook post that was going around: Remember when teachers, public employees, Planned Parenthood, NPR and PBS crashed the stock market, wiped out half of our 401K's, took billions in TARP money, spilled oil in the Gulf of Mexico, gave themselves millions in bonuses, gave unlimited and undisclosed amounts of money to politicians and paid no taxes? Yeah, me neither.

Our priorities are off as a nation. We will never be the leading nation in the world today with cuts in education and elimination of provisions for our people.

And if you want to play the "Christian" card regarding politics? Never in the gospels does Jesus encourage the rich to keep their money (he says render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, and he references Micah's give to God 10% of what you make), never does he say keep the lepers on the outside of town and keep them "unclean," never does Jesus deny women or children the right to be around him or learn just like the men do. Never does Jesus say "don't feed the poor," "blessed are the rich" or "blessed are the war-hungry." And never does he talk about abortion, homosexuality, or abstinence before marriage.

So if you're gonna play the WWJD card, you better not talk to me about abortion or gays in the military or abstinence-only birth control programs in our schools. And you better not talk to me about war or the military or the death penalty. Because, as A.A. Bondy aptly wrote in their song, American Hearts, "If your God makes war then he's no God I know, cause Christ would not send boys to die."

Except his own. Because of Christ's subversive message of upside-down spirituality (drawing on God's long history of beseeching through the prophets)... because he commends those who when he was hungry gave him something to eat, when he was thirsty, gave him something to drink, when he was a stranger, invited him him, when he was naked, clothed him, when he was sick, visited him, when he was in prison, came to him, because whenever we do these things for the least of these, we do them for Christ.... because he did not fight Rome with swords on behalf of the oppressed Jewish people, but rather taught them how not (in turn) to oppress those weaker than them... because he called God (indeed himself) King and taught a way of life completely subversive to the materialistic, chauvinistic, hedonistic worldview of the Romans and even the Jews themselves (remember those money changers in the Temple?)... Christ was sentenced with capital punishment.

And because we as a church do not do an adequate job of taking care of the physical and spiritual needs of the people around us; and indeed because the church does not have the resources to do so even if we committed to this calling, the government has a responsibility to step up. It is the government of the people, elected by the people, who has the calling to protect us from mis-education, under-education, corporate oppression, and provide us with the opportunities to practice and embody our inalienable rights.

I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but for some reason, on Good Friday, it seemed appropriate. I do not whittle down everything Christ did in his life and death as political, but I'm sick of people who call themselves Christians mis-using the Bible to propagate their right-wing political (not Christian) agenda. And I'm sick of people only getting their news from Fox. So, here's some of the facts friends. I don't have the expertise to volunteer an adequate solution, but I do write my representatives bi-weekly advocating (among other things, and if you're a follower of my blog you probably already know what most of those are) that they tax the wealthy and cut military spending, in part because of my convictions as a Christian, but also because of my convictions as a patriot of the United States of America.

Palm Sunday Reflections

I don't go to church anymore.

This is not a lifetime commitment... to no longer attend church... I intend to attend church again someday. It's just that I currently am not attending church.

"So what?" some of you say, "Sinner!" others may chide. And still some, "Seriously, Ann?" which are the comments that sting the most.

I'm not attending church in part because I exhausted myself attending church, creating church, doing church and being church for the five years I spent at my last job, and the 27 years before that (four days a week in college, three days a week in high school...). The way I figure it, I've gone to more church services than your average church-going sixty-five year old man. And I'm only 32.

So I'm taking a break.

But fatigue from church-going (you'll note I didn't say from church-being, which I try to still do every day to my friends and family and the people whose paths I cross) isn't the only reason I'm not currently attending church.

The other reason is Palm Sunday.

I used to love Palm Sunday. It's the sixth Sunday in Lent, kicking off Holy week. It remembers the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the donkey when the people lined up in the streets waving palms (because it was the Jewish Passover), heralding in who they believed to be the Messiah.

At FBC, the kids always start off this Sunday morning service by running down the center aisle waving Palm branches above their heads. I love that... the joy, the simple faith, the praise symbol, the welcoming of the Messiah.

But the other part about Palm Sunday is that, as I said before, it leads us into Holy Week, a week of betrayal, abandonment and death. A week of missing the point. The irony is that all those waving the palms in exaltation on Sunday turn to waving their fists on Friday demanding the release of Barabbas, and the crucifixion of the innocent man.

And that's the other reason I'm not attending church right now.

It's ironic in more ways than one. Whenever people would argue that they'd be happy to attend church if it weren't for all the Christians, I used to argue that that was the very reason I loved church. It is not for the healthy, Christ says, but the wounded. I loved that church was messy, filled with hypocritical, trying-to-find-their-way-and-missing-it-half-the-time people on a journey to be church and follow Christ.

I don't feel like that any more.

Palm Sunday is painful because right now I want to escape somewhere and feel loved, not beaten up. And the house I want to go to is God's. But God's house isn't always welcoming.

My boyfriend is a music director at a church and tonight he's at a parishioners home building crosses: three of them, for the "Last Words" musical they'll be doing at his church this upcoming Holy Week and Easter Weekend.

Nailing together crosses that will symbolize (for some) God's ultimate sacrifice of himself for the people, an act of the incarnation that says, "Yes, I will even take this so far as to die to help you understand"... Nailing together crosses that serve as a constant reminder of the death of a Messiah at the hands of the empire, the death of a Savior at the hands of evil, the death of a man at the hands of those who loved him...

I called my boyfriend after I got out of rehearsal tonight and heard the crosses being nailed together on the other end of the line. "I have tomorrow off," I said. "I don't have to go to work. I could come up there now if you want. And if you're not done with the crosses, I could come to the house and help out."

"But -----'s here." he replied. That's his ex-girlfriend's mother. And despite the waving of the palms and the confession that Christ is the Messiah, despite the ashes on our heads reminding us that we are not, despite the resurrection of Jesus that will come on Sunday and represent the resurrection we practice every day in our life, my phone conversation with my boyfriend ended with, "Fine, I won't come up there."

Because I'm not welcome at his church.

And that's the second reason I'm not attending church right now.

Not only am I not welcome in the church building, at the church services, but I can't even help build the crosses for the Sunday morning play because his ex-girlfriend's mother will be building crosses too.

And that is the embodiment of the irony of Palm Sunday: that the church often does a really shitty job of being church. And while I used to love that about church - I loved that the genealogy of Jesus included Tamar who slept with her father-in-law and Rahab the prostitute - I don't anymore.

I just don't.

At this point in my journey I can't handle any more paradox. No more irony. No more grotesque beauty. I just want God, and I just want peace. And like the Israelites when they were carted off to Babylon, I too am now learning that God doesn't reside in a Temple (or a church) but in my heart. So I'm finding God there.

And sometimes in a dressing room. And sometimes in a hotub. And sometimes on Facebook. And sometimes on my yoga mat. And sometimes on my couch snuggled up under some blankets with my best friend.

You may judge me for not going to church, or you may applaud me, or you may not give a damn either way (and if so you probably didn't make it this far in the blog), but what I really want is a little compassion. Keep your condemnation, applause or indifference. I want compassion.

And eventually...

I want to be welcomed back to church.