I haven't blogged in awhile because I had nothing to say, nothing I
was excited about, but today that changed. I arrived home from an
out of town trip to find a package on my doorstep, one that I'd been
waiting for awhile, three weeks to be exact. Three weeks ago, my
favorite jeans developed a hole. Now that they've added lycra to
things, jeans will run on you like pantyhose, and my did, in a place
I couldn't cover up. I was devastated. These weren't old navy sale
jeans, but 200 dollar/pair jobs, ones that I'd had for two years.
I'd tried on no less than thirty pairs to find them. I'm sure most of
you ladies can relate, especially if you are curvy. Good jeans are
hard to find, and these were not only good, but comfortable and
broken in, the kind you always grabbed first, that make you look hot
on the worst of days.
I took a picture of the hole and sent it it my sister. She's my
fashion consultant, my go-to girl. I wanted to know if I could get
away with a patch on the hole.
After she stopped laughing at me, she tried to coax me into just
tossing my beloved jeans. "You'll look like a hippie!"
I wasn't going to be deterred. I did an internet search on how to
patch jeans. I was depressed, but then I found Denim Therapy.
They claimed they could Fix, not patch my jeans, said it would be
invisible. Instead of a patch, they would re-weave the fabric to
make jeans fabulous again.
I decided to try it. What did I have to lose? The jeans were beyond
my repair skills
I filled out a form and they emailed me a shipping label and a
diagram of a pair of jeans. I was supposed to mark it, showing them
the exact area I needed repaired, which I did.
I packed up my beloved jeans, let the UPS dude pry them from my
hands, and I waited.
After three days I got an email with an estimate. 50 bucks. 50
bucks, and I would have my hip-huggers back.
I calculated the time I would spend trying to find a new pair of best
friend jeans, the cost of the time I would spend making them feel
like the ones I had sent in felt, and decided it was worth it.
I emailed my go ahead, and then, two weeks later, almost to the day
that I mailed them, I got them back. I was so excited, I undressed
in front of a window. Its kind of a good thing I have no neighbors.
And my jeans were perfect!
There's some white mesh stuff of the inside and I can see the reweave
a little on the inside, but from the outside they are perfect. Looks
like they never had a hole. I can be dressed again.
www.denimtherapy.com

revenge of the machines

I have been on blog silence while I recover from a little bump on my head. Don't worry, I'm okay. It's just that for the past few weeks, machinery has been out to get me. I know that sounds crazy, but I'm not paranoid. You'll see once you hear my story. I have literally been living in a Stephen King novel.
It all started a few weeks ago, on a rainy morning. We had the usual early-morning rush. My kids couldn't find their stuff, and they told me they'd left something in the trunk of their father's car. I went to this car, brand to remain nameless, opened the trunk, and peered inside. This trunk is is very heavy, and it has a hydraulic assist on it. It's the kind that opens automatically with the remote. I stuck my head inside. It was almost as if someone tapped me on the back and try to push me inside, only I didn't fall. Then the trunk came down on its own and tried to bite me, swallow me up. That's right it closed on my head. Now this trunk is shaped like a big forklift. Since the push wasn't successful, I was only halfway in, and it caught me right on the forehead.
No Jokes, okay? I was hurt.
I saw stars for a moment, and then the pain radiated throughout my body. It traveled around to the back of my head, and then ran down my spine. I had a quick flash of being found there, like one of those toys they stuff in the back of the Trunk that looks like you've closed Garfield back there, but his butt is still sticking out. I was alone with my children, and was concerned that they would find me. I shook off the pain as I felt a knot rising on my head. It took a few minutes for the stars and planets I was seeing to go away, but I pulled myself together and got my kids to school on time.
But that wasn't the only thing. A few days later, I was loading one of my beautiful new dishwashers. Of course I purchased the latest in technology. It had all the bells and whistles, literally. I stood in front of it and turned around to grab something to put inside. When I turned back around the door fell open, and hit me in a place on the leg there feels like it's directly connected to your core. Once again my body radiated with pain. I bruises, and another knot rose on my leg that would quickly rival the one on my head.
I thought the worst was over. Another two days later, I hopped in my car, intent on taking my kids to NASA in Houston. I'm on the road on my way out of town, and all of a sudden my car swerves out of control. Note that this is a different car from the one that tried to eat me. I pulled over to the median. Lo! and behold holds, my almost new car had a very flat tire. A blow out. I called roadside assistance and I tried my best to entertain the kids as I waited for them to arrive. After half an hour, it was clear that they weren't coming to get me. They claimed they couldn't find me. Three different truckers had stopped to help and I had already turned them down. I tried to put the car up on the jack that came with it, and twice it fell off, The second time after I'd already gotten the tire off. The second time it fell off, the jack became unusable. This is a bad thing because my car now had no tire and it was sort of on the soft part of the road and was sitting on its rim on the side of the car, with me and two car kids in the back of it.
Finally, a good Samaritan came along. He was the Pastor of a Church in San Antonio, and he was on his way to a nearby Raceway. Who would've known I would have blown a tire right near a Raceway? This is another good thing because only the kind of jack they use on a Raceway would fit under my car, which was now so close to the ground you could maybe shove a toothpick under it. The kind fellow changed my tire and I headed home to change cars.
The machine conspiracy had been foiled again. It took me all this time to recover from my two bumps and my hurt feelings because I was sitting on the side of the road and a sports car with only three tires. By the way, that tire was so shredded that I could put my whole body in it. I'm recovered now.
I asked my lawyer if I get car manufacturer or the dishwasher maker, or even the people made the tire. Maybe the Jack manufacturer?
He shook his head It had the nerve to accuse me of being clumsy.
Whatever.

The Boutique is Now Open

The Girl (IN) Ipanema

Ipanema. Copacabana. Rio De Janeiro. Yeah.
Does this conjure up images of white sand beaches, near nekkid
women and men? Paradise? How about dengue fever?
I arrived in Rio with the travel book pictures etched in my head. I
just knew I was going to see, tall, tan, young, fabulous looking
people strolling down the beach. Well, sort of.
I'd packed several swim suits, to make sure that I would choose the
most appropriate one. I discovered that the Brazilians (the
cariocas) do not suffer from the same body hangups as we Americans.
They were no more beautiful than anything you might see on an
American beach, but Lawd, they were certainly more nekkid. I saw (or
didn't see) miles of cloth that had disappeared into the hinterlands
between many a butt cheek and grandpas in speedos.
When in Rio.....
Not really. I did pack my best tiny suit. Sort of like your skinny
jeans. The suit a good friend of me had once asked me to cover up
because she had a pre-adolescent son. And you know what, I was still
over-dressed.
I enjoyed the beach and the people watching anyway. Lots of flesh in
thousands of hues. And that dang song kept playing in my head. "Tall
and tan and young and lovely the girl from IPanema goes walking..."
or maybe "Nina in Ipanema." Nah, sounds like a porn flick.
In my short time in Rio, I also absolutely had to visit the statue of
the big Jesus, the one on every commercial about South America.
(Christ The Redeemer).
I cabbed it across town and let me say this, I didn't speak a word of
Portuguese before last week, but my spanish seemed to pay off. I was
able to read most things. Street signs. Roadside warnings. And the
billboards in every bus stop from the ministry of health warning
about preventing Dengue Fever.
Did I get a shot for that?
I enjoyed the statue and the views from the top, but when I got back
to my hotel I frantically searched the internet for clues. What were
the symptoms of Dengue and could I get it?
Striped mosquito bites. Headache. Why did I read this?
While sitting pool-side for an afternoon thirst quencher, I felt
little pricks around my ankles, and I immediately started to itch.
There were cats around, probably to keep rodents away. My hotel was
oceanside, tucked into a mountain and needed protection from the
critters. Cats meant no rodents. No rodents, no snakes. I was okay
with that.
Well, the cats, they had FLEAS. And the &*^% Fleas were biting me.
In a few minutes, I was itching al over and convinced Dengue was
going to set in, never mind that the internet said mosquitos were the
source of transmission and not Fleas.
I was twitching like a crack addict in withdrawal, but I still
considering my cultural quest as I hunted down the best feijoada, the
Brazilian equivalent of soul food. Feijoada is the Sunday meal that
the Brazilian slaves ate. I said it, I ate meat. I even have a
picture to prove it.
I paid though. Paid big. Two days of major heartburn.
I enjoyed Brazil. Immensely. The best part, fitting in. This was
one country where o one really stared and there was a distinct
absence of that feeling that black folks get almost everywhere else,
that fringe feeling. People didn't know what I was, and they didn't
care.

Me & The Cast and some Crew of Marrying up/Reflections

IMG_0273.JPG
So, now that opening weekend is over, folks keep asking me if I was
happy with what I got. My answer is an unequivocal, yes. Actually,
I had no idea what to expect. I just tried to do each step to the
best of my ability and hoped it would add up to good. And what
exactly was each step? A whole lot. Writing the dern thing was only
the beginning. Being the Executive Producer meant that every little
detail rolled up to me. I mean everything, beginning with raising
the cash to making the show happen. Travel details-someone had to
make sure that each member of the cast and crew go to where they were
supposed to be, reasonably happy, safely and on time. Set building
had to happen on time and be functioning. There had to be a tech
rehearsal for the people who would operate the set and rehearsals for
the cast. Building had to be secured along with security. Wardrobe
had to be available. I'll tell you what, there were a lot of costume
changes. I'll have that in mind next time. My character alone wore
no less than five pairs of shoes in the two hour production. There
needed to be appropriate props for everyone, in the right place at
the right time. Program booklets had to be designed and printed, CD
inserts designed, printed and CD's pressed, T-Shirts for the crew and
for sale had to be designed, printed and paid for. Sound and
lighting had to be taken care of. Oh, and folks had to be fed.
All kinds of unanticipated things had to be fielded. I had to deal
with unpreparedness, attitudes (both good and bad), delays, city
permits, dusty spaces, funky travel schedules, excuses and bed bugs.
Or at least some of the actors did.
At some point, things just started happening by themselves. It was
like the show took over and I could have been screaming stop, but
that just wasn't going to happen. It literally felt like a tornado
had lifted it off my shoulders. My crew of many took it and ran. Not
just the actors, but the makeup artists, set dressers, ushers,
assistant director, stage manager, music director, lighting, camera-
folk, concession people...just a whole lot, probably the bigger crew
I ever supervised outside of my military days.
I sat in the silence in between the first show and took it all in.
This was a biiiig job, but all the pieces just came together like
magic. I'd done what I could do, delegated the rest, anything I
couldn't handle I just handed to the universe and the result was
wonderful. I even enjoyed my family bringing me the same bunch of
flowers at the end of every show. So, would I do it again?
Absolutely. I'm working on that now.

Marrying UP!

So, I just go up from a twelve hour power nap. Executive production is sleep deprivation at its finest. The play opened and had a great weekend with an almost sold out show on Saturday. I learned a lot from this process.
First, People really like a woman with a gun. I had no idea that Dina (AKA NINA) would be such a hit, even though she was obviously supremely evil. I REALLY dug the mean woman with a gun and hot shoes myself. Of course the character was a shoe diva!
Second, I learned that your employees will eat your profits if left alone. That's right. I have video of my staff happily eating M & M's at the concession stand. I know who you are and you will be fined accordingly.
Third, I learned that there is no modesty in theater.
I had a cameo, but since the role was so small, I didn't have a mike. I had to share one with Li'L G since were were never on stage at the same time.
Logistically, it seemed like no problem to do a ten second mike change.
For the unfamiliar, the mike is on an elastic belt that velcros around your waist UNDER your clothes and then you place the ear piece on your ear.
Well, I stepped off stage ready to change mikes behind the scenes, and realized I had on a suit. So I unzipped quickly and ripped my shirt open, basically flashing the man and exposing my boobalas for the world to see. Of course, he was the ultimate professional. He didn't even miss a beat as he "dressed" me, even though with my four inch heels, his face was right at cleavage height. Another actor stood gaping. he couldn't believe he was seeing his boss in her skivvies. What I didn't realize was I wasn't far enough in the wings. I think I flashed some of the front row audience too. Good thing I was wearing a good bra!

Here's a clip. Sorry about the Cloverfield effect.

The Making of Marrying UP