You Spell Theatre, I Say You're Wrong Plus a Bonus Baby Rant

I'm feeling really tired today, probably because Adam and I actually went out last night. We saw Springtime for Henry at the Huntington Theatre (even though it annoys me exceedingly when American theaters use the British spelling of "theatre" in their names). Surprisingly, I found it quite funny and I thoroughly enjoyed the production, even though one of the leads looked distractingly like Reese Witherspoon. Why is it I have such a difficult time enjoying theater? I can't seem to lose myself in the same way I can in a movie. Is it just that I'm low-brow? I fidget a lot in my seat, trying to get comfortable, which I also do in boring movies. But when I get into a movie, I don't even notice the seat. The play was compelling. It made me laugh. But I just couldn't lose myself in it. Adam doesn't seem to have any problems enjoying theater--he falls asleep just as quickly at a play as he does at a movie. Only at a movie I'll sometimes let him sleep whereas at the theater, I poke him because I find his head nods a little embarrassing. It seems like such an insult to the actors. But the play was delightful. First of all (not that I'm in any way turning into my father here. No, not me!) it was short. Short is always excellent. Second of all, not having seen the film, I was completely surprised by every turn. I didn't guess a single twist. Third of all, I have a great passion for the time period (late 1920s, early 1930s; it's why I collect WPA travel guides. Well, that and my fondness for road travel). I've always aspired to be a modern-day Dorothy Parker (without the alcoholism and suicidal tendencies, which does, I suppose, defeat the entire purpose), and anything tinged of that time period interests me. I always thought I'd fit in quite nicely at the Algonquin Round Table, after all I'm bitter and cruel, occasionally funny, and I love my martinis.

So today I'm more or less sleepwalking through the day, which means my tolerance for people is about nil. Especially the office lonely lady who feels the need to not just comment on the fact that it's supposed to be a cold summer (gee, thanks) and that I of all people will appreciate that (doesn't everyone know how much I adore the heat? Seriously!), but that she feels the need to tell me all this while I'm in a bathroom stall. Is nothing sacred anymore? While it's sweet that everyone is so nice to me now that my belly is hanging out for the world to see, it does grate on my nerves. It's not that they ask how I'm feeling. It's the tone. That saccharine-sweet verging on baby talk tone that people now use with me, accompanied by a look of poignant concern. It's being asked every five minutes. It's asking as if I'm going to say, "Well, I'm actually having a lot of pain in my ligaments as my uterus stretches out my belly and I find that I'm short of breath and all of my bras are cutting into my rib cage, but I haven't had a chance to buy new ones, and the sciatica is bad in the evenings and my bladder...." when really, all I'm going to respond with is "Oh, just fine!" The only ones who really hear how I feel are the ones who don't ask (I know, life is so unfair that way, but my friends know better than to ask and they're the only ones I'm going to be honest with). If I crouch next to someone's computer to work on something with them, they leap up and say, "Oh, no! You must sit," no matter how much I insist that I'm fine where I am (and for the record, squatting is one of the best exercises a pregnant woman can do). I really appreciate being offered a seat on the T. It's very kind. But when I'm going two stops, please don't insist that I must sit, even though I'm saying, "I'm fine. I only have two stops to go." People grab bags from my hands when I'd prefer to carry them myself (even my own parents--twice!--tried to carry my purse--my purse!--for me. Let me tell you, Nine West is not an attractive look on my father). Folks (except for my grandmother) try to force food on me (apparently, "I'm full, and I shouldn't be loading up on sugar anyway" is not an acceptable answer). I know people mean well when they call me "Mom" or "Mama," and it is occasionally cute, but not when I hear it twelve times a day!

I'll tolerate it a lot more once I've had a good night's sleep. In the meantime, I'll leave you with one of my favorites, Dorothy's "Love Song" (from Enough Rope) (and this is no reflection on my own love life):

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
 And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
 And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled-
 Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world-
 And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
 And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
 And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
 As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams-
 And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
 And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
 In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
 Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart-
 And I wish somebody'd shoot him.