That Girl

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.

It has everything to do with the fact that I saw Wicked three times on its current Salt Lake City run. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) (Also, to defend myself, the first time was a gift to Matthew. The second time was a deeply discounted gift for a friend. The third time was her lottery winning gift back to me. So it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. Obsessive, yes. But less expensive.) These three times are in addition to the several times I'd already seen it in previous years.

If you've been reading this blog for a hot minute or two, you know that I looooove Idina Menzel. This deep affection began long before she originated the role of Elphaba. It began in my college dorm room in 1999 when I obtained the Rent cast album and declared my undying love for her right then and there. And so, of course, I was thrilled when she won the Tony for her portrayal of Elphaba, beating out, among others, her costar Kristen Chenoweth. 

Elphaba/Galinda. Glinda/Elphaba. (You see what I did there?) The roles are equally iconic. Until yesterday afternoon I believed that the Tony winning role--all else being equal--is Elphaba. And I suppose that I sort of still do. It's her story, really. She's the one who belts The Wizard and I, Defying Gravity, and No Good Deed all alone on stage. The role was written to earn the Tony.

Maybe it's the phenomenal performance by Kara Lindsay that got me. Maybe it's that I saw the show from the second row and that gave me a perspective on Glinda's character arc not afforded to anyone sitting beyond the first ten rows or so. But my goodness does Glinda ever grow. She is crazy and caffeinated and hysterical and snobby and awful but she is also incredibly tender and strong and beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful. She doesn't really get even one show stopping song. Popular is as close as she gets and, though arguably the funniest scene in the entire show, she still shares the spotlight with Elphaba. In fact, the only song Glinda sings alone on stage is the reprise of I'm Not That Girl. 

And so Elphaba wins the Tony (and I'm not complaining because Idina slays). But she wins it for her vocal solos and the fact that it's called Wicked instead of Good. I have long loved Elphie. So much so that I named my cat after her before finding out that our cat was actually a boy kitty and changing his name right quick to Oliver. But I finally realized that Glinda is, maybe, (I struggle to even put it in words) the more challenging role. GASP.

Or Kara brought a depth to it I've never seen before. It's one or the other. (That's not to say that Jackie Burns--who I have also long loved--didn't absolutely bring down the house. She's amazing. Incredible. A joy to watch and listen to. Stunning and phenomenal.)

During the past three weeks, I have become one sidedly acquainted with Ms. Lindsay.  She seems like such a true delight. I'm 99% certain that we would be fast friends. I am not so certain that Idina would want to be my pal but I honestly believe that, if I ran in Broadway circles or Kara was a teacher at my school, we'd be instant buddies. In an interview, she said that she leaves her dressing room door open so that anyone who wants to can come in. She also said she believes that the relationships forged offstage inform the performances onstage. I love both of those statements so much--from a teaching perspective, from a ministry perspective, from a life perspective.

Yesterday, I was telling my husband that I really see so much of Elphaba and Glinda in my own personality. Maybe everyone does. Perhaps that's the point. Or, perhaps, it's somewhat unique to me and that's why I have loved this musical so much for the past 15 years. Somehow along the way though, I've lost a lot of that Glinda spunk. I miss her. I told him that I wanted to pull out that buried part of my personality--to live naturally caffeinated, to not be quite so reserved or rigid. I suppose it's the teacher and mother in me. If I had to choose between Glinda and Elphaba to raise my children or teach my classes, I'd pick Elphaba every time. Flying broomstick notwithstanding.

I told him I was tired of being a toad. (I'm not comparing Elphaba to a toad in any way except skin color.)

But Glinda has more fun. She may lose the guy but does she ever HAVE MORE FUN. And better costumes. I want a big blue ballgown. And a crown. Or, at the very least, I want to find that part of my personality that would wear a ballgown and a crown. I want to dig up that girl who doesn't worry quite so much, the one who knows what she wants and goes for it, the one who doesn't win a Tony but maybe plays the more challenging part. The soprano. (Just kidding. I am unapologetically an alto. Or a tenor, probably.)

Glinda takes care of serious business in the end. She is a strong, good leader, but she still comes and goes by bubble. She seems to be the very best parts of herself and Elphaba. She doesn't win the Tony. But, by the end of the show, I don't think she cares.

Excuse Me, Sir!

Shall I regale you with the story of tonight? My friend, Abi and I were downtown. We parked in a spot that said 2 hour parking and we walked off. Fast forward about a half hour. We returned just in time to see a meter man walking away from my van--which was sporting a shiny white ticket under the wiper blade. We were so confused. Both of us are college educated women and we've both been reading for several decades. We approached the vehicle and stared at the parking sign. It said two hour parking. It did state, toward the bottom, that Saturdays were free but that was it. Not being a frequent visitor of downtown Salt Lake, I, apparently, do not know how these things work.

I've seen many a movie where the ingenue gets pulled over but talks her way out of the ticket. Since there was truly no ill intent and I was honestly confused, I decided to try my hand at getting out of the ticket. I chased the meter man down the road. "Excuse me, sir! Sir! Excuse me. Excuse me, sir, I have a question."

I was ready. I was ready to turn on any charm I might have. I was ready to explain my utter confusion and, thus, my innocence. I was ready to put the ole theatre degree to work if need be. "Sir!" The meter man turned toward me, clearly annoyed.

It was at that moment, after howling the word SIR several times, that I realized my big mistake. It was most assuredly a meter MAID (or a female parking enforcement officer if we're being PC). And she was not happy that I'd just called her a dude multiple times. She stared at me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I only saw your hat!" And any hopes I had of getting out of that ticket were scattered on the cold sidewalk. No amount of charm would get me out of this one. I still sort of feebly tried but to zero avail.

And listen, I know she was ticked because I'd questioned her femininity but she was wearing her standard uniform plus a gray beanie. She had NO hair whatsoever poking out in any direction. Sure, women have short hair. That's cool. But maybe a pink hat or a purple one? Something that would otherwise identify her as woman so that the poor unsuspecting ingenue of the story didn't accidentally and completely insult her.

So the moral of this story is Salt Lake City needs to be infinitely clearer with its parking signs and, also, that one should correctly identify the gender of the parking enforcement officer BEFORE screaming sir.

As a result of my failure to sweet talk my way out of it tonight, I am now raising money to help pay for my parking ticket. If you found any humor in this post, please send me a quarter via Paypal or Venmo.

JUST KIDDING, of course. About the Paypal/Venmo thing. Everything else is, sadly, quite true.

Yeti Jammies

It was a Thursday morning in Walmart. The youngest boy and I had just gathered several items, checked them out ourselves, and were heading out of the self-check area when we noticed a small boy wearing what we call Yeti Jammies. Will owns said pair of pajamas with snow monsters on them.

Will: He has my yeti jammies.

Me: Yes. He does have your jammies.

Will: He give them back?

Me: Oh, Honey, no. He has the same jammies. Those aren't yours. Yours are at home.

Will: He went into the laundry and took them?

Me: No. Those are his. Yours are still at home.

Will: He came into my house and took my yetis? 

None of this was said with any malice. He truly just assumed the baby, who looked like he was just shy of a year old, broke into our house to lift one blanket sleeper. He never raised his voice but instead kept talking in a normal, albeit slightly concerned, tone.

Me: He has his own. Those are not yours.

Will: Can I get them back from him ever?

Me: Will. I promise that your jammies are safe at home. I will show you when we get there.

At this point, I told the mom of the other boy that my son couldn't understand why her little boy was wearing his pajamas. She smiled and laughed and then pushed her cart, her kid, and his yeti jammies off in another direction.

Will: Wait! He still has my yetis on!

Me: Ok. Baby. I promise to show you your jammies as soon as we get home.

The entire way to the car, he calmly explained to me that the little boy still had his jammies and he had obviously stolen them from our home and he would like them back at some point. There was no reasoning with him. When I got home, the first thing I did was run up to his room. I opened his pajama drawer and...

THE YETI JAMMIES WERE NOT THERE.

I panicked briefly before remembering that they were in the dryer. I ran down and pulled them out.

Me: Will, look! Here are your yeti jammies.

Will: Oh! He already bringed them back! He is a nice boy.

Sigh.

The Tailor's Wife

Olive wood crosses scattered themselves across the walls. Pictures of family members--probably dead and gone--stood in cheap frames on the shelf. It was busy with figurines depicting biblical stories. The smell was something I cannot place but which immediately catapulted me back into my Israel days. Walking in to the alterations shop was exactly like walking into a business in the Holy Land. The sign says, Tailor Ibrahim from Bethlehem. He wears his homeland like a badge of honor.

Israel is somehow a swirl of foreign and comfortable, different and right. There are moments of longing to be home while simultaneously knowing that you already are. I do not know if it is this way for an unbeliever who finds herself there on holiday. But for me, it was as if my soul understood its connection to this place. As though the Spirit inside me was somehow pleased to be home, standing on hallowed ground. Truly, and inexplicably, I find myself longing to be there for always. Oh, to plant my feet in the Galilee, to wander the city streets of Old Jerusalem, to explore its beauty both assaulted by Antiquity and, seemingly, somehow, touched by nothing but the glorious hand of God. You cannot know until you have been there. You cannot understand the way it instantly pumps wonder and joy into your very life blood. I did not know I would love the Holy Land. And yet, I have never met a person who has been there who did not return home feeling as though they would always sense a magnetic pull back to land of our Savior.

It is why I can watch a video of Jewish women making challah bread and believe that, though I cannot understand a word they're saying, they are somehow speaking my native tongue. It is why I can walk into a tailor on State Street in Midvale, Utah and, somehow, want to stand inside forever. It looked like Bethlehem. It smelled like Bethlehem. Its people were Bethlehem.

Troy had dropped his pants off there a few days before and he told me about talking to the wife about the church in Shepherd's Field, his tours to Israel, and his love for the country. I wanted to go with him to pick them up. As he tried his pants on in a small, makeshift, dressing room, I stood staring at the pieces on the walls. I was taken back to the olive wood shop we have given our business to in Bethlehem. Aside from the sewing machines and row of pants hanging on a garment rack waiting to be altered, everything felt so very similar to those souvenir shops.

"Do you have children?" the tailor's wife asked me. I told her we had three. "How old are they?"

"Twelve, nine, and our youngest, he's two.

"A boy?" she clarified, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Yes. They're all boys," I answered.

When I tell people that I have three boys, I am generally met with a look of deep pity. Often I am asked if we're going to try for that girl. Occasionally, I've even gotten an I'm sorry. Several times I have had people say, I'm so glad I got girls. I don't even know what I would have done with boys. Or, I never could have handled boys--as though they are a wild creature in need of immediate taming. This is the western world's response.

But this Palestinian Christian from Bethlehem widened her eyes, "Oooohhhh," she somehow whispered as she inhaled, a quiet breath of excitement. A smile of awe tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Three boys! The Lord has truly blessed you." This is a Middle Eastern response--the reply of a land where boys have, traditionally, meant everything. It stood in stark contrast to the sad sighs of people who see my family and shake their heads, sorry that one of them is not a girl. It was beautiful to my heart.

In 2005, on my first trip to Israel, I crumpled a small piece of paper into a tiny ball and stuck it deep inside a hole in the Western Wall. It was a prayer, the deepest cry of my heart. Oh, that the Lord would give me a child. Standing in that land, with its foreign sights and smells, its unfamiliar culture, its ancient customs, I somehow believed that if I could just get that prayer into the depths of that wall, it would be answered. I was Hannah. I was Rachel. I was Elizabeth.

The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. Not one time. Not two times. Three beautiful times. It was not easy. Not a single one of them came to me without tears--enough to fill many bottles. Still, out of that adversity came these men. I believe that all children are a magnificent blessing from the Lord. I would have liked to have had a daughter. I miss her so. But I do not need or want pitied glances. The Lord has truly blessed me. He has given me boys.

I could have stood in that shop forever, maybe, listening to the lilt of their accents, smelling the flavors of Bethlehem, feeling that connection to a land that is somehow Home, my heart dancing in the blessing of a woman who looked upon me with joy.

Psalm 127:3 Sons are indeed a heritage from the LORD, children, a reward. (HCSB)

The Real Point of This Post...

I've seen Wicked way too many times. That didn't stop me from trekking downtown yesterday at 4:00 pm, in a blizzard, to try to get lottery tickets to see it again. I was unlucky. Although, they did call a Laura Burham and I held my breath for a second because, see, I'd waited in the freezing cold so when I wrote my name down on the card, my hand was numb and I thought, "Maybe I accidentally wrote something that looked like Laura Burham." But then the real Laura Burham started screaming and hooting and hollering so I was pretty confident that she was the actual winner. After the lottery, they offered discounted tickets.

Now, being a bit of a theatre connoisseur, I knew that if I wanted to buy tickets at full price right now (I don't) they'd be a pretty penny. I also knew that the good evil people of Salt Lake City are selling their tickets online for three times what they paid for them. So when they offered discounted tickets, I jumped on that deal. And that is how I ended up seeing Wicked again. Three days after I'd just seen it. It's kind of like going to see a movie more than once. If movies cost a whole hefty bunch more than they do, that is.

One of my biggest life laments is the cost of shows. Or maybe the lament is that I'm not wealthy. If I had more money, the cost of shows would be completely inconsequential. Well, that's neither here nor there. Shows are expensive and my wallet is slim. The end.

I just really felt that if Laura Burham got to see the show last night, I should too. And I'd driven through a crazy snowstorm to get there. So my friend and I graced the theatre (this particular one which happens to spell itself "theater" and I shudder whenever I see it) and I viewed the musical yet again.

On my way there, though, I thought about turning back several times. I prayed even, as I saw cars stuck in snow banks on the side of the road, "God, should I turn back?" In the absence of a clear answer, I just kept driving. I called Troy, "Husband, should I turn back?" He told me he thought it would be smooth sailing once I made it to the freeway. And he was right. But I said, "Okay, well, if I happen to die on my way there, I love you."

"At least if you die, it'll be doing something you love," he replied.

Except that I'm not sure that driving through the snow to try to win theatre lottery tickets is actually what I love. Now, if I'd been in the show and a lighting fixture had fallen on my head, then maybe we could say that I died doing something I love.

It was at 3:15 pm that I said to my husband something along the lines of, "I think I'll set out in this blizzard and try to get Wicked tickets for tonight. I'll be gone until 11:30 tonight and I'm leaving you with a sick toddler, mmmkay?"

And he was like, "Be safe. Turn around if you don't feel comfortable. Call me if you need help getting out of a snow bank. Have fun."

It was at 5:30 that I texted him and basically said, "I didn't win because I am not one bit lucky when it comes to winning theatre lottery tickets but they're offering discounted tickets which are way more than lottery tickets but also way less than actual tickets so is it okay if I go ahead and do it?"

And he was like, "Sure. Yes."

Ladies, find yourself a man like this. My husband isn't perfect and sure there are things I would change. Just like I'm sure that he wouldn't mind one bit if I didn't sing show tunes all the time. But he is always willing to support me even if he doesn't quite get it. I'm sure that driving downtown in the snow to see a show I saw three days ago seemed insane to him. But he never said no. He never cautioned me against it. He basically said, "Be safe. Have fun."

I told him he was great last night. It doesn't hurt to say it again, more publicly.

But the real point of this post is that there's someone living in my city with the name Laura Burham and she likes theatre. I don't know if Salt Lake is big enough for the two of us.