My husband and I had a date night this past weekend. At first we just made plans to usher at the Blackfriars. But then we found overnight care for the kids at two different houses and decided to leave a little early so we could get a hamburger at Five Guys, yum.

‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore was the name of the play we were ushering. I had been warned it was a dark play (and that under no circumstances whatsoever should I take the kids to it). In fact, I had long ago decided I didn’t want to see it at all.

But then I got curious. It might be interesting to see how the actors pulled it off. I’d seen them do dramas and comedies, but a dark and bloody tragedy would be something new. Still, I was worried. Would it mess with my mind? Would our sweet date night be ruined?

I was surprised by my reaction. I liked the play! It wasn’t exactly fun to watch, but it was extremely well executed (no pun intended), and the sex and violence weren’t gratuitous. The play was ugly and raw, yes. But not raunchy. It probably helped that I was so caught up in the acting details—how the blood got on stage, how they comported themselves while being nearly naked, how they acted those hard scenes and still remained emotionally stable individuals (though I guess they could all be wacko and I’d be none the wiser).

The next morning, we slept in (to 6:30) (I am constitutionally unable to sleep in—it’s a curse). My husband told me the following story while I was still half-asleep. It made me laugh.

The previous day, he was at home with the kids while I was at rehearsals. He was tilling the garden and the kids were playing on the front porch. He went into the house to check on them and they weren’t anywhere around. He thought they had maybe taken the TV and were watching a movie upstairs (wouldn’t be the first time), so he went to check.

They were on the front porch roof. They had hauled out blankets, toys, books, and a radio, lathered up with sun screen, and were hanging out like a pack of college kids (minus the beer).

My husband went back downstairs and used his cell to call them on the house phone. Nickel came running down to answer it. He never saw his papa crouched down between the plants and the fridge. 

Papa: Hi. Where are you?

Nickel (walking around, looking for his papa): Playing downstairs.

Papa: Let me talk to your sister.

Nickel (running the phone upstairs) (loud whisper): It’s Dad. Tell him we’re downstairs. Trick Dad!

Daughter: Hi, Papa.

Papa: Where are you guys?

(Pause.)

I want you to think very, very carefully about what you say.

Daughter: (Pause.) On the roof?

We got dressed for church (no yelling at kids required) and readied the house for the noon meal. My husband suggested we hit the bagel shop for breakfast, so we did.

Two meals out and a play equaled one much-enjoyed date night. And, considering that I’ll be gone most evenings from 6 until 11 (give or take some minutes) for the next month, it was a smart, preemptive move, too.

This same time, years previous: garden tales, part one, garden tales, part two, talking points rained out

I’ve been a little distracted lately. Maybe you noticed? Probably, since I’ve all but ceased to post. I wasn’t completely honest when I made that list last week about all the stuff going on in my life. There was one more thing.

Last week my older son and I auditioned for a play at the local university. And got parts.

!!!!!!

And then I stopped sleeping and partway lost my voice.

I have never acted before. I’ve always wanted to act, but there was no theater program in my high school and I was too intimidated and insecure in college to give it a shot. I wondered what it would be like to be a part of a cast, to learn lines, to rehearse. In fact, a couple years ago I made up a list of dreams, and “being an actress” was the first thing I wrote down. (Not that being in one play makes me an actress, of course.)

I’m on a steep learning curve. I’ve learned that a rehearsal time of 6:30 means you are ready to go at 6:30—signing in, getting dressed, all that stuff happens beforehand. I had to google to find out what a “green room” was (because the green room sure didn’t look all that green). I finally understand “blocking.” I’ve learned that when the stage manager says we have two minutes of break left, we’re supposed to say, “Thank you, two,” which, for some odd reason, makes me feel very British.

I still feel like my brain is getting flipped upside down when people say “stage left” and “stage right.” The other night the director was telling us to “center down” and I had no idea what she meant. I just stood there, clueless, and then my “sister” sat down on the bench and I realized the director was telling her to “sit down.” I’m so lost I no longer even understand regular commands!

My son is a Union soldier (and a non-speaking draft dodger) and a meeting house member. He carries a gun and tries to grab my stuff and my husband beats him up.

I am Edith, the next-to-oldest child in a family of five kids. I am newly married and get to act 15 years younger than I really am (shouldn’t be too hard, I’m afraid). I have disturbing dreams and visions—the one bedroom scene makes me think of Tevye’s nightmare in Fiddler on the Roof (though it’s nothing like it)—and my kids love hearing me rehearse them. I’ve taken to interjecting my lines into everyday life. For example, when my husband (the real-life one) makes a comment about me being stressed, I start wailing. “It’s like a raging river ripped me from the ground and dragged me down with it!” (Also, he now calls me “Eeeediiith,” in a creaky, old-man voice.)

I’m learning to navigate a hoop skirt. There will be corsets (and bloomers and chemises and petticoats and stockings and boots and skirts and bodices and bonnets and FLAME RETARDANT MATERIAL (though I don’t think I have to wear any, which is kind of good since my biggest childhood fear was of being burned at the stake) (though it would be rather dramatic to go up in flames, don’t you think?).

Oh yeah, and we have to sing. There are trios and rounds and mini solos. I am not a strong singer and have never sung in a choir, so that’s all new to me, too. (Go me!)

The other night, my brother graciously came over to help my son practice his bass lines.

I’ve been guzzling ginger-lemon (and lime) tea like my life depends on it. (Edith’s may.)

Performances are scheduled for the first three weekends in June. I’ll keep you posted.

This same time, years previous: apricot pandowdy, lemony spinach and rice salad with fresh dill and feta, hummus, and rhubarb sorbet