GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY

I love to sing. The problem is I can’t sing. That point was brought home clearly by my son Adam recently.

He called for my birthday. When he asked me what I was doing for fun. I told him I was in a musical. 

"Good thing I don't live there anymore." he laughed.

“You’ll be happy to know that you can still show your face in town. I don’t have a singing part. But don’t get too comfortable. I may just try out for a singing part someday soon. It could happen. They are letting me sing in the church choir.”

He snorted in laughter again and said. “The church choir doesn’t say no to anyone.”
“Who died and made you a comedian? Not only that, but when you call someone on their birthday it’s just not polite to throw around insults! Especially when the birthdayee is a hair away from senility and could write you out of her will. Besides, it’s not true. My friend Terry told me the choir asked him not to come back.”

Adam was really laughing now. Apparently, he thought I would better serve my talents in stand up comedy.

My singing disability is not because I don’t practice. The problem is I think that if you practice wrong for so many years you just get better at being really bad. I love singing show tunes in the shower. One  day, when I walked out of the bathroom after one especially rousing vocal concerto, I almost tripped over my kids and their friends, who were rolling on the floor of my bedroom, wiping away tears of laughter.

One of my all time favorite songs is, ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ My dream has always been to walk down the street like they do in my favorite musicals and sing at the top of my lungs. I am happy to say that dream came true for me several years ago.

We were in the New York subway. When the train thundered down the track and I felt secure that no one could hear me, I threw my head back and belted out my full throated tribute to Broadway. It was amazing. Part of my jubilant feeling came from the shock on the faces of my children as they tired to get as far as they could from me and still catch the same car on the subway.
No one threw money my direction, but on the upside, they didn’t throw rocks either.

IT COULD ONLY BE A MAN

This year I forayed into a different creative arena—community theater. My husband often thinks I am in the full throws of Alzheimer’s. He constantly accuses me of forgetting things that I happen to know he never told me. I decided that memorizing lines would prove to him that I was not the mentally deficient one in the family. In truth, I learned once again, that my husband is only one of many men out there who have lost their minds.

I found my evidence in the bathroom on the set. There is no delicate way to say this, so brace yourself. When I went to the bathroom, tucked away behind the stage, I sat down and almost screamed. I was staring into a double sized full length mirror. It was definitely not my best side. Now who would do something so stupid? It had to be a man.

After the first jarring moments however, I could see possibilities for such a decision. You could take the time sitting there to fix your makeup, hair, or maybe even pluck your eyebrows and still make curtain call. Genius or stupidity—hmmm.

The bathroom has always been a tacky subject. When I was growing up and dating, I would rather endure horrific pain than to have to excuse myself for a potty break. Only the very real threat of wetting myself and everything else in the near vicinity made me give in to my shyness. Apparently, my timidity lingers on.

In our huge church building, some genius—it could only be a man--designed the building to have only one bathroom for men and one for women. Not only that, but they are tucked away in the same corner, right beside a drinking fountain.

It wasn’t a problem when my children were little. I could take one of them by the hand and pretend they were the ones who had to go. Now I have to brave it by myself. After all, it’s not like I can randomly grab the hand of some child wandering down the hallway.

 Here is the typical church bathroom experience. First, you greet the group of women standing against the wall chatting. That’s not so bad. It’s greeting the man who inevitably walks up beside you, then peels off to the right into the men’s room while you peel left into the women’s.  It's like a great bathroom choreography.

I once overheard a man say that nothing was worse than shaking someone’s wet hand because you knew they had just come out of the bath room. That man has led a sheltered life. I can think of a whole lot of things worse than that. However, our church is famous for it’s handshaking.

Since hearing that comment, I make sure to completely dry every speck of water off my hands before I leave so I can shake hands with the man or men who will inevitably be outside the door. Not that it is any great mystery as to where I was when they see me walk out the door that has WOMEN boldly emblazoned on the outside. After all these years, I still haven’t come up with the perfect ice breaker for moments like that one.

ALZHEIMERS ?

A few days after my aunt died we were laying in bed when Rick asked me if I was okay with her death. She had a lot of health issues so I was happy for her. I said, “I don’t have problems with anyone who dies unless it’s something tragic. Like, I wouldn’t want you to die.”

“Well I wouldn’t want you to get Alzheimer’s. That would be hard to deal with.”

“Rick, what is your fixation with my brain lately? You act like I’m going crazy of or something.”

“Honey, you have no idea where you put your keys half the time and you’re always forgetting where you put your phone.”

I was stunned. This man had to be the maestro of bad timing. Just this very day I had driven 30 miles to Cathlamet to pick up his phone and his ear piece that he left there Saturday. When I got to Cathlamet, his phone and earpiece wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I called his office to tell him it wasn't there. The girls asked me what I was talking about. The phone and earpiece were  on his desk. He hadn’t even see it!

“You are kidding me, right?” I said. “He who doesn’t know where his phone is?”

“I knew exactly where I put it. I just forgot I moved it. You on the other hand, are always losing track of things.” 

I gotta say, death always brings about the weirdest conversations between us. “Rick, I am not losing my mind. My brain is wired differently. It moves light years ahead of yours. I only lose things because I’m not paying attention.”

I don’t know what was so funny about what I I said but Rick went from solemn to hysterical in one easy second. He was laughing so hard he was squeaking.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s my brain we ought to be worried about right now.” I said.
He tried to speak but all I caught when he gasped for air was the word 'attention.' “That’s right.” I continued my explanation. “If I am paying attention to what I am doing I know exactly where I put things, but if my mind is racing through the litany of tasks at hand I don’t think about where I lay something. Hence, I am not losing my mind, I am just not paying attention.”

Could a person really die laughing? I didn’t want to risk it so I shut my mouth until Rick finally managed to gain control and blurt out.“That’s like saying, ‘I’m not retarded, I’m just not paying attention, I’m not stupid, I’m just not paying attention." That was all he could say before inhaling air again.
“Honey, you are never going to get it! I don’t have the luxury of having only one thing on my mind at a time. If I tell myself that I am putting my keys in the closet I remember exactly where they are.”

I could tell I wasn’t getting anywhere so I tried a different approach. “So, Rick, let me ask. Were you paying attention when you forgot you picked your phone  up and took it to your office or was your mind on something else?”
This of course was a concession to the fact that maybe he had more than one thing on his mind at a time but I can only conclude that it happens so rarely he has no idea it is happening. I let him snort himself into a stupor while I rolled over to go to sleep.

Another day I would bring up the fact that if I needed him to do three simple tasks I had go over the list a thousand times before he left the house. Then, when he gets to work he inevitable calls to ask. “What was it you needed again? I patiently repeat the list again only to be told.  “Wait I have to write it down.”

Humph, and I’m the one getting Alzheimer’s!