Drama Queen

Fun fact: "Waldo" is "Wally" in the UK. Well no wonder I couldn't find him...

DID:

All My Sounds

A couple of weeks ago N and I went to see the Arthur Miller play All My Sons. An excellent Arthur Miller onion that started off like a Norman Rockwell painting, soon peeled away to American Gothic, and then eventually pared down to a tragedy highlighting the futility of serving the gods of American dream: family and fortune. I, myself, living the American dream in my 3 bedroom flat with 3 other people - white barred windows, 0 cars in the garage, 0 kids, pruning my window-box garden - can obviously relate to the whole scenario at this point in my life. Anyway, I love seeing shows, but when it comes to seating it’s quantity over quality. I would rather be sat in many different seats at many different shows than have good ones. Besides, the tiny baby swing-sized bleacher seats keep my diet and hips in check.

So there we sat, our seats hovering somewhere on the brink of an out of body experience and vertigo, watching over the show from a heavenly perspective. Nosebleeds. No matter- the play was amazing irrespective of the overhead vista. An amazing set; I actually forgot I was a cherub peeking down through an oculus in the Pantheon. And because we sit in the cheap seats, we compensate for not relaxing in a luxurious box by packing a somewhat luxurious lunchbox of wine, cheese, crackers, charcuterie and marinated olives, anchovies...basically any fruit of the earth that can be delightfully suspended in oil and spices. At one point it was a really intense moment; the whole theatre was silent. I leaned forward with bated breath. Heavy chink. No, sorry...heavy clank/thud. Our empty wine bottle (half-bottle, judgers...) is now rolling...grinding against the uneven ground. Horror. I'm totally the Philistine in the cheap seats ruining the moment with cellophane and empty bottles. But that’s what you get for entertaining the masses.

Sister Mary Halitosis

A little less cultured than my A.Miller adventure (in both theatrical splendour and absence of a my standard forbidden fare) I had dim sum at PingPong and went to Sister Act the musical with my former manager. Our last hurrah before she left me for abbey-brewed beer and a bigger salary in Brussels. There was also the Whoopi factor. The former Delores Van Cartier is working the musical in London for 3 weeks only. Obviously we had to get tickets for opening night. The musical was fun – not because it was the best musical of all time but more because everyone was so excited about Whoopi that the audience was very interactive and into the show. Also there were sequins habits. Enough said. The sparkling nun-suits were almost enough to dazzle and distract me from the only truly bad part of the show: the brain damage I sustained from lack of oxygen that resulted from the acrid puffs of suffocating fetor being exhaled by the large woman next to me as she yucked it up. The prolonged asphyxiation might have done irreparable damage to my brain- but it also probably helped me enjoy the show. You know, kept me lightedheaded...and hearted. The kind of constitution that is good for making whoopee...

DUD:

Shakespeare in line

I’m late for everything. Fact. However, I do respect 2 powers beyond my control. I always offer the sacrifice of my punctuality on the altar of the train and theatre timetables. They don’t wait for me. I can’t explain my way back into their good graces. They are unyielding like that. Rude. Last weekend N and I were going to see Shakespeare’s As You Like It at the Old Vic. I bought amazing tickets for £10 on lastminute. I also made the mistake (as I often do) of not checking the tube lines. Actually, that’s not true. There is always some line closed on the weekend. Or, since I moved to my new flat, every line closed on the weekends. But honestly, they usually give me at least one line to work with (the crappy, old met line) and shut down the jubilee. Not this last past weekend. Sadly, I even left an hour early (should take 30 minutes top) so I could shop and pack my usual prohibited picnic in my purse. I texted N to remind him not to be late. I checked the jubilee line- closed. Son-of-a shrew. I assumed the other was running. Mistake. Long story short, I knocked over a few old ladies, glared at mothers who let their babies run free as I hopped over them, I danced around and rolled my eyes as I waited in line to board the bus aaaaaand I missed the show. By 5 minutes. Fail. All was remedied by a hearty pub lunch and elderflower fizz at the glorious Anchor & Hope pub just down the street from the theatre on The Cut. So, £24 and two tickets later I’m going again this weekend.

DEEP...ish:

Here is the church, here is the steeple, open all the doors and flee from the people...

I’m not cool at church. I mean, being a churchgoer doesn’t make you cool in Europe, so the least you can do is be cool at church. Have friends, sharpen each other’s iron. All that good stuff. N and I have been attending the same church together for over a year (and me for almost 2) and we have, hmmm lemme count... 0 friends. We’ve mastered the art of the late entrance, back row skulking and surreptitious slip out the back somewhere between final prayers/ songs and charismatic healing/vision prayers. One time, as we were leaving, we looked around at the large number of diverse and cool people hanging around, talking, encouraging each other and we were like “Why don’t we make friends with these people? They believe the same thing we do? What are we doing?” That made me feel guilty for a couple of weeks. I recovered.

Then last week our friend Flo came with us (yes, point for me - bringing a work colleague) and as we left she was like “So... do you just...go in and then come out?” As in... why don’t we stay and talk to people? Um, probably because that would consist of us staying after and talking to...each other. So, after about 2 years and one - no, two unsuccessful attempts (i.e. I showed up once with incredibly good intentions, never to return)... I decided to get serious about joining a pastorate (aka Bible study, small group, etc.). Like stalking serious. I emailed the pastorate administrators, the church coordinator of pastorates. The coordinator gave a me a few names, I emailed and... Nothing. Lots of automated email away messages or...nothing at all. Crickets. Hmm. Wait. The pastorate is just not that into me?

I finally got a response. Great potential – perfect on paper: right by my flat, meets during the week, has room for 2 more people...leaving the church? This perfect pastorate that meets 2 minutes from my flat is actually leaving the church after this term to be a part of a church plant. Ummm, well that defeats the purpose of trying to get plugged in and make “church friends”. Hey look! These are my new friends...that go to a church. Not the same. But we mulled it over and thought hmmm, maybe we can be a part of the church plant? I mean, I really don’t want to – I like where we go. I’m not friends with anyone, but I can imagine what it would be like if I was... But the more I think about it the more I conclude that this situation - a tiny little baby church - could just be the push we need. I mean, it will be a lot harder to sneak out the back when there are like 10 people at your church. We’ll see...