Camp: The Documentary

Okay, this is really weird, but lately I feel like I'm living the epilogue of a documentary. You know, like when you watch a film about an event or a group of people or whatever, and then you think it's over, but at the very end they show what happens afterward when the members of the group or participants in the event go back to their normal lives? Like that. So the documentary would have been about camp, and now the cameras would be following Chrissymine and me around now that we're home. Here we are shopping for a new microwave at Best Buy. Here we are taking the dog to the vet. Here's me at Physical Therapy. There would be snippets of footage designed to illustrate how utterly plain and normal life seems when camp is over and you're out of the bubble.

I sort of wish there was a documentary about camp. I'm so sick of some of my aerial acquaintances around here thinking I'm some yahoo who teaches little kids how to juggle or whatever. I had brunch with some people the other day and one of them, in her most condescending tone, asked if our "little end of the summer show" went well. End of the what? LITTLE? We do three completely different full-length productions each summer. Each show has costumes designed and made for it, sets, sound, and 60-80 kids in the cast. We rehearse each act for an hour a day. Some kids (the intensive kids) rehearse for three hours and then train for two more hours per day. We have auditions and workshops and tech rehearsals and evening rehearsals and a camp show and a parent show each session. Some of those kids are better at tissu and hoop than this particular person who was being condescending to me, so she might want to shut up. And that's just the circus program, by the way. While we're doing our thing there are 9 theater productions, a dance show, a magic show, countless music performances, and an art show all preparing and rehearsing at the same time. People have no idea what we do there. It's hella frustrating.

In other news, my hand is feeling much better, although I have not yet been cleared to hang on anything yet. I am sick of people asking me how my wrist is doing. It is not my wrist that is the problem, thank you very much. Does it matter? Well, yes because somehow I feel like, had I hurt my wrist, it wouldn't be as awful as having hurt my HAND in several places. Considering the aforementioned hanging from things that I do.

Did you know that Chrissymine was the victim of witchcraft or some such shit over the summer? Yeah, it happened at the hands of an Ex-Friend and her Bad Influence. Long story, but apparently it worked considering all the bad stuff that happened to her friends and loved ones while we were at camp. I wanna do some witchcraft on the girls who pulled that malarkey. My version of witchcraft involves punching people in the face. It's not very spiritual, I'll admit, but it is rather effective.

Speaking of bad stuff that happened to Chrissymine, her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer right before camp. Fortunately she had surgery over the summer and had the tumor removed (as well as a bunch of lymph nodes just in case), and now she's cancer free for all intents and purposes, but she has to have radiation every day for a while. She had some tests done that showed the chance of recurrence to be quite low, so that's awesome, but the whole process of getting to this sigh-of-relief point has been really difficult. So did Chrissymine need people to give her shit all summer long? No, I think she had enough on her plate. Did people give her shit anyway? Yes. Because the world is full of jackasses. Jackasses whom I would like to punch in the face.

Wanna' see a photo of my new tattoo? Here:



I got it done in Lake George on July 23rd. It's hard to tell, but it's on the inside of my left forearm. I am totally in love with it. It's meant to represent stars and waves. Stars because I love them and waves because I'm extremely fond of the ocean and have been since birth. One of my staff members designed it for me. So there you have it. My third tattoo, and the first one that's visible. My parents are going to kill me. They still don't know about the first two. Pickolas, do NOT tell them.

Anyway, that's what's going on with me. I'm climbing back into my Seattle life as best I can. Maybe I'll learn to like coffee this year. Who knows?