Easter is . . . skulls, stitches and telltale teeth marks

I had forgotten how huge Easter is for kids.  As an adult who couldn’t tell you the difference between Palm Sunday and Good Friday (besides the obvious fact that one is on Sunday and one is on Friday), Easter was likely to pass by without my even noticing it.  In fact, one year I spent Easter in Paris – a city that apparently observes the holiday in much more obvious ways than most American cities, namely by shutting everything down.  Cafes were closed.  Museums were dark.  Shops were shuttered.  My traveling companion and I couldn’t figure out what was going on until we finally realized it was Easter.  We were forced to spend the day doing outdoor tourist activities such as strolling Père Lachaise Cemetery and going up in the Eiffel Tower.  Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?  I’m sure it would have been had it not been freezing cold and snowing like crazy.  Not even a view of the City of Light from the Eiffel Tower is romantic in a blizzard.

Easter apathy wasn’t always the norm for me.  As a kid, I was a big Easter fan.  This is a photo of me at an Easter egg hunt when I was around 6 years old.  Maybe I’m just squinting into the sun and through the piece of hair that needs to be brushed out of my eyes, but it looks like I was probably ready to call it a day. 

As a fashion aside, I feel compelled to state that, despite what appears to be evidence to the contrary, I’ve never owned or worn a lot of pink.  I must have been decked out in it specifically for the occasion.  Please note that while very pink, my outfit is in no way frilly – a simple pair of shorts, matching knee socks and a pastel striped top . . . girly and festive, yet still casual and understated.  I think it was working, especially since it coordinated with my hot pink Easter basket.  You may notice the bright red watch that does not match the pink ensemble particularly well.  That was my ever-present Snoopy watch.  I wore it constantly and did not care if it matched or not.  While I didn’t mind if my watch clashed, I wouldn’t be caught dead without carefully coordinated hair accessories – thus, the pink pigtail holders.

Now that I look back on it, the Easter when I was six was probably the last Easter that was all pastel pink, fuzzy bunnies and fluffy chicks for me.  Yes, Easter took a darker turn when I was seven.  It all started with an innocent neighborhood Easter egg hunt.  All of the kids had been hunting for quite a while and there was one egg missing.  Excitement was high and I was running a little too fast around a corner.  I tripped on a big rock, went flying through the air and came down on the front bumper of beat up old car, cutting my face open right underneath my left eye.  My mom was across the street working in our yard and I vividly recall watching the expression on her face change from mild concern to horror as I got closer and she saw all the blood.  Which, incidentally, totally ruined my adorable little denim jumpsuit.  I’m still upset about that, never mind the scar, which is still slightly visible on my face thirty years later.  I’ve spent a lifetime having some version of the following conversation with doctor after doctor:

“Wow, who stitched up that cut under your eye?” 

“Um, I don’t know.  Some ER doctor when I was a kid.” 

“He did a terrible job.” 

“Great.  Thanks for noticing.”  

Well, the seven year old me did not know good stitches from bad stitches.  All I knew is that I LOVED them.  I loved the bad-ass stamp of approval having a big red gash bound with mean looking, heavy black stitches gave me.  As the youngest kid on my street and one of the only girls, I fought uphill battles to be cool enough and tough enough.  My stitches won the war.  I was cool.  I was tough.  I was in.  Thus began my lifelong fascination with stitches and a very long phase (painfully long for my parents, I’m sure) where the only thing I would draw was people with red crayon cuts on their faces, crisscrossed with black crayon stitches.  I made self-portraits and gave myself stitches.  I drew pictures of my family with stitches.  I drew Santa with stitches, Leprechauns with stitches and especially Easter Bunnies with stitches. 

Now that I have a child, I am rediscovering the fun of Easter.  And, in a perfect example of the apple not falling far from the tree, Chester is putting his own dark spin on the holiday.  On the Friday before Easter, his preschool did an Easter egg hunt.  Excitement was building throughout the week and on Thursday night, a note was sent home to make sure each child brought some sort of basket or bag for egg collecting.  I realized the only basket I had was the one I (and by “I” I mean the Easter Bunny) was planning on leaving for Chester on Easter morning.  As we drove home, I wondered out loud what we could pull together as a basket.  Chester had it all worked out. 

“Mommy, I’m going to use my skull.”   

(Brief moment of confusion)

“You mean the skull bag you used for Halloween trick or treating that went with your skeleton costume?”

 Yes, that was what he meant.  Now, I must admit, as a fan of skulls (both as a vital part of the skeletal system and as a motif) this pleased me, but both the mom and Easter Bunny in me wondered if we shouldn’t do something to Easter it up a bit.  I came up with an idea to fashion bunny ears and a tail out of paper, markers and cotton, and affix them to the skull with safety pins.  Upon hearing my idea, Chester looked at me like I was a complete idiot and said, “No, Mommy!  I like it just the way it is.”  When I asked Chester’s teacher where I should put his “Easter basket,” she gave me an odd look and motioned to a corner.  I loved setting Chester’s skull basket down in the middle of the mountain of pastel wicker baskets.  It looked happy there – exuding a Tim Burton-esque vibe.  I was overcome with an urge to draw an Easter Bunny with stitches.

Speaking of the Easter Bunny, of all the things that made Easter one of my favorite holidays as a child (besides gory stitches, of course), my imagination was particularly captured by The Easter Bunny.  I believed in him for much longer than I believed in Santa Claus.  My dad is responsible for my deep and abiding faith in the Easter Bunny’s existence.  He told great tales about how he once caught a glimpse of the Easter Bunny in our house as he was hiding my basket.  According to my dad, the magical rabbit was tall – 7 or 8 feet at least – and white and had enormous feet that he enjoyed warming on the heater vents in our floor.  I could have written all that off as silly stories, but the proof was in the carrots.  Every year I left a plate full of carrots out for the Easter Bunny and every Easter morning I found them half-eaten.  The remaining carrots were marked with telltale rabbit teeth marks.  Proof positive!  Bites out of Santa’s cookies?  Obviously my dad could have done that.  Two prominent front teeth marks on a carrot?  That, my friends, is clearly the work of a giant white rabbit with cold feet. 

I still believe the Easter Bunny exists.  Actually, I KNOW the Easter Bunny exists.  I also know for a fact that the Easter Bunny has cold feet.  I know because I AM the Easter Bunny and I love it.  I love picking out candy and fun little toys.  I love putting it all together in a basket.  I love hiding eggs and most of all, I love nibbling on carrots with only my two front teeth to create the marks that prove the Easter Bunny exists.

As Easter approached, Chester began asking probing questions like, “Where does the Easter Bunny live?”  The answer to that, in case you were wondering is down the Bunny Trail.  “Where is the Bunny Trail,” you ask?  (Chester did too.)  Nobody knows.  Some theorize that the Easter Bunny lives and does his year-round Easter preparation on Easter Island.  Maybe.  Others, like the old animated TV classic, “Peter Cottontail,” suggest that he lives in April Valley.  Perhaps.  All we really know is that “down the Bunny Trail” is someplace mystical and magical and pastel. 

Feeling quite pleased with my nonchalant and convincing answers to the Easter Bunny line of questioning, I reminded Chester that we needed to make sure to leave carrots out on Easter Eve.  He seemed hesitant.  My mind raced, “How could he be hesitant about leaving carrots out for the Easter Bunny?!  How will I fulfill my Easter-Bunny-proving, carrot-nibbling duties if Chester doesn’t want to leave carrots out?!”  I tried to stay cool . . .   

“Oh, Chester, we definitely need to leave some carrots out for the Easter Bunny.”

“Are you sure, Mommy?”

“Yes, I’m sure.  What if he gets hungry and needs a snack?”

“He can go to the store and get something.”

 “No way, he doesn’t have time for that.  He has millions of baskets and eggs to deliver.”  

“OK, Mommy, if you say so . . . . . . You don’t think we’ll have the same problem we had with the reindeer, do you?”

Yes, Santa’s reindeer nearly ruined my favorite Easter tradition and destroyed proof of the Easter Bunny for my young child.  You see, Chester was leaving cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve and very considerately thought the reindeer would need a snack too.  We were at my parents’ house and Chester and grandma decided on a plate of carrots, placed on the kitchen floor, near the cat food bowls.  On Christmas morning, Chester woke up and raced upstairs to see if Santa had come.  Lo and behold, not only were the cookies and carrots mostly eaten, but there was even more definitive proof that Santa’s reindeer had, in fact, been in the house.  One of my parents’ many cats had thrown up a pile of barely digested food, squarely behind the plate of carrots.  Chester stopped just short of stepping in the pile of brown, expanded, soggy cat food bits.  His eyes widened and he took off like a shot, running through the house, yelling “Grandma! Grandma!  Santa’s reindeer pooped on your floor!”

I assured Chester that we wouldn’t have the same issues with the Easter Bunny and his carrots.

“Oh no, buddy, I’m pretty sure the Easter Bunny is housed trained.”

“Are you sure?  Because I don’t want him pooping on our floor.  Guh-ross!”

“I’m sure.  The Easter Bunny knows better than that.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t do that . . . “

Whew, my carrot nibbling plan was saved . . .

“. . . He wouldn’t do that because he’s not a REAL bunny.  He’s a person in a costume.”

What!?!?!  I clearly had my Easter Bunny work cut out for me.  I spent the week psyching myself up.  My shopping was focused and intense.  I carefully hid the Easter goods.  I tucked Chester in on Easter Eve and waited.  I was tired, but I waited.  I was really, really, excruciatingly sleepy, but I waited some more.  When I was sure Chester was sound asleep, I crept downstairs and began my super-sneaky egg hiding, meticulous basket assembling and finally, the finishing touch, painstaking carrot nibbling. 

Easter morning came extremely early because Chester was very excited.  He raced downstairs and found some eggs.  Next, he saw his basket and shrieked with delight.  Then, here it comes . . . he noticed the half eaten plate of carrots and gasped.  Upon closer inspection he summoned me over, “Mommy!  Mommy!  Come here!  Look!  Rabbit teeth marks!  The Easter Bunny was really here!”  Worked like a charm.  I recommend the teeth marks – they are easy, effective and much less messy than a pile of regurgitated cat food. 

After much egg hunting and basket exploration, the extremely satisfied and very tired Easter Bunny took a nap on the couch while Chester watched “Peter Cottontail.”  Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail, hippity, hoppity, Easter's on its way . . . Zzzzzzz . . .

Dream House

You know that toy you always wanted but never got?  Mine is the Barbie Dream House.  I wanted it desperately.  It caught my eye when I was about six years old.  By the time I was seven I had my heart set on it.  The Barbie Dream House remained the “It Toy” for me until I was nine, maybe ten.  Every year, when the Sears Christmas catalogue arrived in the mail, I frantically flipped to the Barbie section to gaze at the elusive Dream House.  I consistently included it at the top of my Christmas list year after disappointing year – proof that hope truly does spring eternal.

Truth be told, I’d still jump at the chance to play with a Barbie Dream House.  My unrequited Dream House desire brings to mind an episode of Seinfeld – the one where Jerry is dating the woman who has an amazing old toy collection that she refuses to let him touch.  Jerry and George drug her to sleep – nothing illegal, just wine and turkey – so they can play with the toys.  Elaine even joins in for some retro fun with the Easy-Bake-Oven.  I think of the Dream House every time I see that episode and can’t help but admire Jerry’s devious scheme to play with the toys of his childhood dreams.  Would I drug someone if it meant I could play with Barbie’s Dream House?  Yes.  Yes, I would.

Here is the object of my toy-lust, circa late 1970s – early 1980s.  This two-story A-frame version of Barbie’s home had skylights and flower boxes.  There were, as the catalogue description attests, “six picture-perfect rooms filled with stylish furniture.”  Stylish furniture, indeed – check out how fabulous Barbie looks reclining on that totally groovy sofa, waving as if to perkily say “Hi everyone!  My life actually is just as perfect as my super-awesome Dream House makes it look!”    

This was not Barbie’s first house.  According to my on-line research, Barbie’s earliest home was introduced in 1960.  It was a thoroughly modern studio apartment that was made of cardboard and folded up in between play sessions.  The apartment featured a twin bed, a couch and a coffee table, as well as a stereo, a makeup table and a closet.  By 1974, the year I turned two, Barbie had moved up into a two-story dwelling, with a total of six rooms and an elevator so Barbie could move from one floor to the other with ease.  By today's standards, the early ‘70s version of the Barbie Dream House was pretty basic. The "rooms" consisted of colored backdrops to create the different themes – kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom.

It looks like the Dream House has come a long way since it occupied my childhood dreams.  Barbie’s house for the new millennium has all the modern amenities one could hope for.  The three-story, pink plastic residence comes equipped with a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a luxurious bed and bath suite with a canopy bed, a soaking tub and a toilet that “flushes.”  Barbie’s home also features a wall-mounted flat screen TV, a washing machine and dryer (no more trips to the laundry-mat for Barbie), a spiral staircase, an elevator, an actual ringing doorbell and an outdoor whirlpool.  A fireplace in the living room and a working lamp create a cozy interior. 

Apparently home prices in Barbie’s world have followed actual trends, because this modern Dream House runs about $488.  I don’t even want to know what that is per square inch.  I KNEW I should have bought into the Barbie real estate market back in the early ’80s when the price was a mere $100 or so.   

Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you look at it), my friend Leslie Hall had the Barbie Dream House.  (Apparently her parents had better real estate instincts than mine.)  Having a friend with a Dream House was fortunate because I did get to play with it occasionally, but unfortunate in that it created a great deal of jealousy, self-pity and subsequent “it’s not fair” whining, which I’m sure my mom greatly appreciated.  Not only did Leslie have the Dream House, she also had the Town House – the three story one with the columns and the cool little elevator on the side.  How, in a fair and just world, could Leslie Hall’s Barbie have two luxurious homes – both a suburban estate and an urban dwelling – while my Barbie had none? 

My Barbie was forced to live in a ramshackle ghetto house made from empty cardboard boxes, Barbie carrying cases and blocks.  My Barbie’s Ken was not a sugar daddy like Leslie’s Ken.  He did not provide Dream Houses or Town Houses.  My Ken was a sugar-free daddy, and that was OK, because my Barbie didn’t really like Ken all that much anyway.  She always suspected she could do better and frankly, got tired of his constant whining about never getting to drive the Corvette.  She kept him around, mostly to drive her spiffy ‘70s motor home so she could relax and try on clothes en route to their exotic destinations.

Yes, my Barbie clearly had to take her real estate dreams into her own hands, and she didn’t mind doing that.  Unfortunately, she kept smacking her perfectly coiffed blond head into the proverbial glass ceiling and never did get a Dream House of her own.  (Now that I’m an adult, this situation seems strikingly familiar.)  In my Barbie’s case, the glass ceiling involved the reality of having her world exist within a small mobile home that had no room for a Dream House.  (At least that’s what my parents said – I had plenty of great ideas, but I guess the kitchen table wasn’t an acceptable location in my mom’s mind.  And you know what they say about real estate . . . location, location, location.)

Ah, consumerism - nothing like getting a child emotionally committed to completely unattainable real estate goals before their age reaches double digits.  I belong to the generation of girls who grew up in the decadent and “go girl” 1970s and ‘80s.  We were told we could do and be and have anything.  But just like my Barbie, most of us have run into glass ceilings of one kind or another.

There has been much rumination over the years, since Barbie’s creation in 1959, about whether her impossibly perfect physical characteristics are a bad influence on young girls.  We’ve all heard about how Barbie’s proportions defy the laws of physics – it would be impossible for her to stand up with that tiny waist, those huge boobs and her itty-bitty feet.  Scholars and pop culture junkies alike have posited that Barbie has single-plastic-handedly damaged the self-esteem of generations of young women – causing them to spend their lives striving to achieve a level of physical perfection that is, in reality, unattainable. 

Honestly, I never cared that much about looking like Barbie.  Barbie’s far more insidious influence on me had to do with her luxurious belongings.  I’ve spent my life yearning for her clothes, her extensive shoe collection, her Corvette and yes, that fantastic Dream House.  I’m still striving for the Dream House, and not the plastic Barbie one.  I’ve set my sights ever-higher, as I tend to do.  Now I want a real Dream House.  And why shouldn’t I have one?  I was always told I could, if I just worked hard.  So far that strategy isn’t as effective as I thought it would be.  This Dream House acquisition business is far more difficult than other people’s Barbies made it look.  My “go-girl” generation is up against a number of stumbling blocks – lingering gender equality issues, career/life balance quandaries and the recent blow of the recession.  And let’s not forget the cruel little joke of being the first generation that doesn’t seem to “have it better” than our parents, even though we were always led to believe we would.    

The Dream House I want these days doesn’t need to have a flat screen TV or an elevator or an outdoor whirlpool.  I am firm, however, on the working lamp and flushing toilet.  Really I just want my Dream House to have plumbing with slightly fewer issues, floors that were refinished during my mother’s lifetime, maybe a little extra room for a guest and two sinks in the bathroom, because I don’t like to share any more than Barbie does.  A state-of-the-art kitchen isn’t necessary, although one that looks a bit better than a bad 70s experience would be good.  I don’t need three floors or a spiral staircase, but I definitely require a walk-in closet for clothes and shoes.  Lack of closet space is a deal-breaker. 

I don’t know what happened to my Barbie.  She and I were a good team – styling amazing outfits, testing cutting-edge hairstyles and cruising the remote-control Corvette.  We finally gave up on the Dream House somewhere around 1982.  Barbie hung in there with her makeshift cardboard and building block house, and didn’t complain too much – after all, she did have the glamorous clothes, a to-die-for shoe collection and a fast sports car.  Life was pretty good.  Eventually, she took up residence in the toy box.  After living there for a while, she decided to downsize and simplify.  She off-loaded many of her possessions and moved to a small apartment on the upper shelves of a storage closet.  That was a nice change of pace, but she ultimately decided the simple life wasn’t for her.  She headed off for life-in-the-fast-lane adventures with a new little girl, about the same time I made my way to college.  I like to think my Barbie landed somewhere with a Dream House.  If not, I certainly hope she hasn’t given up on it.  I know I haven’t. 

Other duties as assigned

I have a job description.  It’s very official.  It says things like:  Organize, coordinate, manage and direct various cultural programs and activities including the City performing arts program, Arts Commission, ordinance-funded art in public places program, community arts activities, citywide festivals and special events, community advisory committees, and department and community publications.

As fancy as that run-on sentence sounds, it doesn’t do a very good job of describing what I do.  It isn’t like my job description isn’t accurate; I actually DO everything it lists – all five pages worth.  It’s just that a formal job description can’t possibly capture the more colorful aspects of my day-to-day professional existence.  In the spirit of accuracy, I’m considering suggesting a few updates and clarifications to my job description.  As I think back over some of the more memorable moments in my job, I realize my job description didn’t give me fair warning of any of them. 

Many years ago, I worked on a regional touring network for contemporary dance.  As part of the project, I hired a dance company that featured “differently-abled” dancers, meaning some of them were wheelchair-bound.  I arranged for them to conduct a workshop for a group of adults with severe head injuries.  A well-meaning staff person with the county arts agency decided to write a press release about the workshop and pitch it to Seattle’s NPR station.  I was thrilled to get a call from the station saying they were interested in the story.  I couldn’t figure out why the reporter was giggling until she came right out and asked, “How in the world can people dance without their heads attached?”  Apparently the press release had indicated the workshop was for people with severed-head injuries, rather than severe head injuries.  Luckily, we got that all straightened out.  The workshop turned out to be a great success.  The majority of the participants had been exceedingly active prior to their injuries.  As a matter of fact, many of them were injured while riding motorcycles or climbing mountains or engaging in equally active pursuits.  They were the type of people who liked trying new things and taking risks, which explains why they were enjoying the dance class so much.  There was one man in particular, who seemed very excited.  He kept coming over and talking to me.  Then he started winking at me.  Finally, he leaned close to me and, with a huge grin, whispered into my ear, “You have GREAT legs.”  Awkward silence . . . that was certainly not what I was expecting.  He kept winking at me and I kept politely waving back.  Hmmm, I didn’t recall anything in my job description about fending off advances from a head-injured womanizer, but there I was.  Finally, when the workshop was over and everyone had gone home, I asked the group’s coordinator about my admirer.  It turns out he had been a sought-after rock and roll drummer, touring with the likes of Michael Jackson, prior to being injured in a motorcycle accident.  I drove home very, very carefully that night, thinking about how well the workshop had gone, the unexpected twist it had taken and how flattered I was that the drummer thought I had nice legs.  I mean, I’m guessing he saw some pretty great groupie legs in his rock and roll touring days, right?

Some of my “other duties as assigned” are gross, like cleaning up trash after busy festivals.  I’m positive my job description doesn’t say anything about picking up piles of discarded spaghetti with my bare hands, and yet, I’ve done exactly that on more than one occasion.  I’ve also been trapped in a poorly ventilated dressing room, cleaning up after an exceptionally sweaty and stinky troupe of acrobats.  Is stomaching body odor so strong it could practically be seen hanging in the air detailed in my job description?  No, it is not.  How about figuring out what to do with a pile of sweat-soaked towels?  Nope, that isn’t in there either.  

On another occasion, a blues singer flew into town to play as part of our summer concert series.  Apparently he didn’t pack enough underwear because his first request upon arriving was to be driven to K-mart to purchase more.  Luckily I had an intern that summer.  Guess who got that job?  And no, our intern job description doesn’t specify that they may be expected to assist musicians in purchasing undergarments.  That goes under – you guessed it – “other duties as assigned.”   

My job description doesn’t say anything about listening to ludicrous complaints either, which really isn’t right seeing as I do it regularly.  For a number of years, I have presented shows from the “Late Nite Catechism” series.  These are interactive and humorous one-woman shows in which an actress plays a nun and the audience members are her parochial school class.  One year, an angry caller berated me for twenty minutes, claiming the show was offensive to Catholics.  Her “proof,” seeing as she hadn’t attended the show herself, was the photograph on the marketing materials.  “It was CLEARLY,” she said, “a man dressed in nun’s clothing.”  I finally got her to stop complaining when I pointed out that the person in the photograph was, in fact, an actress, who would likely be offended to be mistaken for a man in nun-drag.  Just this year, I presented another show from the series and found myself responding to emails from a man who was convinced the show favored and promoted the Catholic faith above others.  And here I thought it was just show business. 

Not only does my job description conveniently leave out information about being verbally attacked, it also says nothing of enduring physical assaults.  Once, a sweet looking little old lady threatened to hit me with a golf club if I didn’t move a TV news van that was blocking her view of festival activities.  During the intermission of a performance of 1920’s music and dance, an elderly woman grabbed the collar of my shirt, pushed me against a wall and, shaking her bony finger in my face, expressed her extreme anger that the seams on the backs of the dancers’ stockings were not perfectly straight.

My job description does state that I should be skilled in “using interpersonal skills effectively in a tactful, patient and courteous manner.”  Who would have guessed that was a euphemism for standing in the middle of a park, brokering a peace deal between a dogmatic and very loud Evangelical Christian demonstrator and an irritated and even louder bagpiper? 

Although it isn’t specified in my job description (of course,) dealing with drunk and disorderly people has become old hat.  Usually these scenes happen at crowded public festivals, but one of the all-time greats happened inside a theater, when an intoxicated man showed up for an Al Stewart concert.  He managed to seat himself right next to our sponsors and spent the evening incessantly yelling “What’s goin’ on?!” to Al Stewart.  Being a consummate professional, Mr. Stewart handled the onslaught with witty comments that eased the tension, but, unfortunately did nothing to change the man’s behavior.  Al played “Year of the Cat,” the man yelled “What’s goin’ on?!”  Al played “Time Passages,” the man yelled, “What’s goin’ on?!” You get the idea.  Time and again, I crept down the aisle, crouched near the man’s seat and asked him to stop.  At some point, I realized my attempts weren’t working – possibly because I’m a 5’6”, 120 pound woman and he was a 6’ tall, 200 pound man.  I gave up and called security.  The security man must have been more intimidating than me, because, upon seeing him, Mr. What’s Goin’ On decided to make a run for it.  He was ultimately tackled, in the lobby, by the surprisingly quick, although portly, security man, who pinned him to the floor on his stomach with his hands behind his back, just like something out of an episode of “COPS!”  Right then, the concert ended and the sold-out crowd streamed into the lobby.  I smiled and acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  “Thanks so much for coming tonight!  What?  Oh that?  Yes, people are forcibly arrested in the lobby all the time.  I’m so glad you enjoyed the show!” 

Another all time favorite, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me moment happened at an outdoor summer concert.  In the middle of the show, we noticed a man in an electric wheelchair rolling down a steep grassy hill.  He was picking up speed and heading straight for the ledge, beyond which is a 4-5 foot drop to a sandy beach.  “What is he doing?” we gasped.  No one knew.  “He’s going to stop, isn’t he?” we queried.  He did not.  He pulled a full “Thelma and Louise,” careening over the ledge, his chair crashing in one direction, his body soaring in another, his fried chicken dinner flying through the air, seemingly in slow motion, and landing in the sand.  We ran to the man’s aid.  We called 911.  He seemed fine and declined medical assistance.  Some onlookers did their best to brush the sand off his chicken and return it to his tray.  I guess they just wanted to be helpful and, like everyone else, had no idea what to do in such a bizarre situation. 

I was reminded of all these “other duties as assigned” a couple of weeks ago when a classical pianist was in town to perform a concert and conduct outreach activities with youth.  I knew it was going to be a busy week, but I wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary, because apparently I never learn.  I thought it would be just another week as a performing arts presenter.  I had no idea I was going to be an Elite Ninja Bodyguard.  That’s right, an Elite Ninja Bodyguard!  I am positive my job description says nothing about being elite, a ninja or a bodyguard – I would have remembered those for sure. 

In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t actually engage in unorthodox acts of war like espionage, sabotage and assassination, so maybe I wasn’t technically a ninja, but I was elite, in that there was only one of me, and Alpin Hong, the pianist, created such frenzy amongst the kids that I did sort of act as his body guard.  At one school, a group of students asked if I was his manager.  It’s difficult to explain my job to adults much less a group of excited 12 year olds, so Alpin and I exchanged looks and wordlessly decided it was easier to make up something a little different.  Alpin said I was his bodyguard.  I threw in the elite ninja part because I thought it sounded cool, and was I ever right!  I was subsequently mobbed for autographs by an unending stream of junior high boys.  I was left perplexed, amused and very much wishing I could go back in time to tell my junior high self three simple words: Elite Ninja Bodyguard.  Oh, to have been so popular with junior high boys when I was IN junior high. 

As it turned out, my week as an Elite Ninja Bodyguard also included crawling around on my hands and knees on stage looking for the pianist’s contact lens, while he conducted a school assembly.  The students enjoyed assisting Mr. Hong’s Elite Ninja Bodyguard by whispering “Hey, pssst . . . there it is.”  I would crawl over to the area they were pointing at, only to find a sticky spot on the floor or a piece of candy wrapper.  Finally, an eagle-eyed boy spotted the contact under the piano bench.  I am certain this young man has a promising future as a Ninja Bodyguard.  I also provided urgent care referral service for the visiting pianist after he ate at one of our fine local dining establishments, i.e. a dive burger joint.  No, he didn’t get food poisoning as you might expect.  He was injured by an enormous sliver from the high quality outdoor seating that stabbed through his jeans and into his butt.  Apparently even Elite Ninja Bodyguards have “other duties as assigned.”