'Cause I Know A Habit Is A Hard Thing to Bear...naise...

I'm watching station 11-4. I don't know what that is on digital TV, I just know that on my digital converter box it's 11-4, and there is currently a man on it winning my heart with a French accent, seared steaks, sauteed thyme, and a new and exotic way to make bearnaise sauce. Sweet crunchy cracker, I don't even know what to say. Who knew? Who knew that bearnaise could be wrestled far more simply than I have ever dreamt possible?*

I am spending the week in the company of family. Family can, from time to time, be far more fun than anything on the earth save the board game Encore**. The Whit, Bighead Ethan, Destructicon, and Smiley Kylie spent last night with me. Moments like this make me wish I weren't so confident that as a woman living alone there is no reason for extraneous room, as I will just fill it with crap; gracious as they are, I can't help but wanting to apologize every fifteen seconds for the fact that I live in approximately 800 square feet, and that when the boys try to write a report on Pilgrims, they can reference weeks like this as they try to write their Magnum Opus, "What It Felt Like To Cross On The Mayflower." They are all exceptionally kind, though, and make me feel like I could host a thousand. I can't help but adore each of them, and the Best! Thing! Ever! Is that now they live close enough that it is entirely probable I can show up randomly on a weekend and touch their stuff and smell funny. Just like they do to me.

I love those kids. I love them so much that if I were to try and express it, I'd turn into Creepy Aunt who Pinches Cheeks or Kisses Noisily When Not Invited. I'd wrap my arms around them and snuggle with them for a thousand years and refuse to let them go, not even for bathroom breaks. (We all know it's just a matter of time, but leave me my illusions.)

This evening was no exception, as the Nutz Brothas continue to grow and expand in their gorgeousness.

Tomorrow is the wedding of the eldest sista of the Nutz Brothas, and I am sure all will be resplendant and on their best behavior. In the interim, however, I will remind myself that I need a pedicure but won't have time for one between now and tomorrow night, that Chris Isaak loves pedicures, and that no matter how much time you take off work, it's just going to suck worse tomorrow.

Got that goin' for me.

*Probably every chef in the world knew. Well, shut the hell up. Unless you told me, your knowledge does NOTHING to help me at this juncture, so I will continue in my crush on the French guy with the bad hair and the suggestion that bearnaise can be handled by whisking the egg yolks and butter together, then sauteeing the vinegar, wine, tarragon, and shallots, bringing them to room temperature and combining the two. How come that seems so much easier than every version I've ever tried? Is that authentic? Is it NOT authentic, but TASTES authentic, differentiated only by pretentious wieners who insist they can taste the difference if they know that it was prepared differently?

**Which nobody will play with me. I tried it once, figuring I was in a room full of music afficionados and geeks. The insufferable malaise of watching them deign to try and suffer through such a plebian game nearly was their undoing, never mind mine.

"NO!" I yelped. "Stop! No! Absolutely not, no! You're not--you're not really--NO!"

And Nutz Brotha #2 continued to pee into a bottle.

Seriously. At this point I appeal to parents, to youth caseworkers, to juvenile delinquents everywhere. What do you do? You can't slam on the brakes, for fear of everyone being baptized with aqueous effluvia. There is absolutely no answer for "Public Urination, Moving Vehicle, Adolescent Perpetration Thereof," anywhere. If there is, I WANT IT. Please. Not even want.

NEED.

The Nutz Brothas and I drove to Nevada this weekend to take in a play directed by Mama T.
They are all directed by Mama T; notwithstanding the fact that she's the only game in town, she's a damn fine good one.

Some years are better than others. Coaches understand this; although we approach things from different ends of the spectrum, I can't imagine that sport coaches feel any differently. Some years are "growing" years. Those are the years that you train kids, you search desperately for that wheat that makes all the chaff worthwhile, and you inevitably have to give way to the fact that the high school football team needs the auditorium for its pre-game assembly. And then...it's like alchemy. Out of nowhere, one of the kids has real talent. They are relatively normal, and they bring their friends to the fray. Suddenly you have half-a-dozen with Real Talent, and you're not sure where to put them all. You pray to Dionysus, hoping all the time that a Greek god is going to understand the plight of the modern-day drama teacher (Rick Riordian notwithstanding), and you cast your show. Grade check, sports seasons, and residual trauma ensue. And at the end you're left standing, wild-eyed, five-nights-of-sleep deprived, and giddy because "THEY EFFING GOT THAT LAST CUE RIGHT!!!!!! YOU CAN'T! BEAT! THAT!!!!!"

I spend my whole life wishing to be even an eighth of the drama coach that Mama T is.

This time she let me be a part of cast notes.

"The crowd scene as you're all coming in to the camp," I said, and was horrified to feel the tears not just pricking but threatening to erode what little was left of my eyeliner. "The Nazi guard that picks up the little boy and hauls him away as he's screaming for his family...I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you're a bastard!"

The girl I know is both sweet, kind, and gentle. She loves theater--she, as near as I can tell, is a total Drama Geek--and her mission in this current production is to be as unlikeable and realistic as she can be. I respect her. I envy her to a certain level; as an adult you can't produce that kind of trauma and terror when technically you can be classified as a Little Person. (We as Little People tend to get head pats and the ever-so-sweet nod that lets us know that we are set, as long as we want Victorian dolls and verbena-smelling underpinnings.) And yet never, even once, did I get the sense that she was anything other than totally committed to where she was, when she was, and everything that it meant.

I don't know; maybe it means more when you see someone behaving totally differently than you know them to be. Maybe it imbues you with a completely different sense of reality, one which allows them to be Total Bastards and yet still be some of the most charming, sweet, kind, and considerate people you'll ever meet.

Great show, White Pine! You can't. BEAT. THAT!!!!!!