I recently uncovered something about myself that I hadn’t realized before; I have no patience when dealing with the general public. In fact, I’m not even sure I like being around most people. Perhaps, for the safety of others, I should avoid ever having a job where I come in direct contact with humans. I could never be a Wal-Mart greeter, a smiling Gap clerk or a medical professional. In fact, it would be best if I just stayed away from people all together. While some may see this trait in me off-putting, I like to chalk it up to one of my many quirks. As quirky as my impatience with people may be, the stark realization that I am ill-equipped to be unleashed on the public came to me a couple of weeks ago when I agreed to help out some friends who own an estate sale business.

 

My friends were facing a daunting task of selling the entire contents of a huge mansion and had asked for extra help. Since I’d only had one experience with selling personal items, and it didn’t go well, I was reluctant to volunteer. However, after agreeing to help out and spending three weekends dealing with the general public, I realized that the knowledge and insight I gained about people and myself far outweighed my initial trepidation. Trust me, this sale was nothing like the run-of-the-mill neighborhood garage sale I once participated in.

 

As I mentioned, my only foray into estate sales was a few years ago when I got together with some of my neighbors to hold a garage sale. We took over an empty house on the street and displayed all of the items we wanted to sell. My contribution to the sale consisted of some lovely framed artwork, a few flower vases, a couple of jewelry boxes, some paperback novels and assorted knickknacks. Looking back on it, I probably spent more time modeling all of the old clothes and posing for photos than I did trying to sell my goods. Somewhere there is a photo of me in a bridal gown standing next to my neighbor, Todd, who is wearing a large pair of fishing waders and holding a sword. Apparently, I should have paid more attention to selling because by the end of the weekend I had amassed a grand total of $14 and then spent $16 when someone went on a food run. I ended up two dollars in the hole and had to drag most of my crap back home. Needless to say, I did not share this story with my friends when I agreed to help out.

***

One of the reasons I’m volunteering is because this estate sale is taking place in a 1928 historic home that is really more of a castle. It boasts seven bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a carriage house, a pool house, and it is over 12,000 square feet. I have a feeling that the items inside will sell for more than $14. As I drive up to the castle, I see there are already a large number of peasants – I mean customers lined up waiting to get in. As the groundskeeper swings open the large black iron gate for me to enter, I feel a little like Queen Elizabeth without the ugly hat. Unlike the people waiting in line, I am granted entrance into the private parking area. I nod at the groundskeeper and with a smug smile and a small courtly wave I drive past him. Today, he works for me. I park my car behind the garage, which sits next to the carriage house that is in front of the greenhouse positioned across from the built-in swimming pool and pool house. I have a feeling I should drop breadcrumbs on my way inside so at the end of the day I can find my car. As impressive as the grounds are, they don’t prepare me for what awaits me inside.

 

I walk through an iron and glass door into one of the kitchens. To my right is the servant’s staircase leading upstairs and another staircase leading down. I head straight in through the small kitchen, past the butler’s pantry, three doors with signs that say, “DO NOT ENTER” and into a large foyer. The black and white marble floor reflects the sunlight streaming through the double doors on the first landing of the massive red-carpeted sweeping spiral staircase. I feel like I’ve just walked into Buckingham Palace. The first person who greets me is my friend, Michael. He is standing in the center of the staircase wearing a red, knee-length, military style jacket complete with gold shoulder braids and brass buttons. He is posing like he is the king of the castle, but in reality he looks more like a doorman at a pretentious hotel. Obviously, he has been digging through the closets and I’m sure he will be wearing this all day.

Everywhere I look there are massive pieces of furniture in rooms with murals on the ceilings and a fireplace I can dance in. Price tags swing from everything that is not a human being. In the center of the dining room sits a table that seats 17 and the room is filled with glass curio cabinets displaying various sculptures. I wander through room after room filled with oriental rugs, hand made furniture, china dishes, crystal vases and gilt edged paintings. Something tells me I won’t find any old Monkees albums here.

 

After all of the workers gather in the foyer, we are given instructions for the day, a receipt book, nametag, pen and a stern warning to watch out for shoplifters. My assignment is to help people in the clothing room upstairs. I am informed that the clothing is mostly couture and designer items and that they are not priced. If anyone is interested in an item they are to bring it downstairs and have it priced at the front desk. I’m actually pretty happy about this. Since my mathematical skills leave much to be desired, I am a bit concerned about adding up merchandise and having my friends find out that they lost hundreds of dollars in the clothing room.

 

As for the clothing room itself, it is actually one of the bedrooms where racks and racks of clothes have been brought in. Before the sale starts I am given a quick lesson from my friend, Lori, on how to distinguish the designer from the couture from the simply expensive. To me, it just looks like a lot of stuff Cher would have worn in the 70s, mixed in with some Blanche Devereaux from the Golden Girls of the 80s. And for some reason there is a full-length, beaded, deerskin dress more fitting for an extra in Gunsmoke. “And watch out for shoplifters,” Lori warns. “People will try to stick clothes down their pants or roll them up and put them in purses or under jackets. Just be aware. Oh, and one final thing. The owners don’t want anyone to use the bathrooms. They are all off limits.” Right now, I don’t realize that the no bathroom rule is going to haunt me for three weekends.

 

Once the sale starts I stand by the door and nod to people as they file in. I make myself busy by rearranging the clothes and trying to put some order to the chaotic collection of cashmere, silk, knits and deerskin. One thing I notice is that the previous owner of these clothes is very tiny. The majority of the items are sized four to six in both the American and European clothing. As I survey the women now filing into the room, I can see that this will be a problem.

 

“How much is this leather jacket?” one woman wearing sweatpants and Crocs asks me. “All items will be priced downstairs at the desk. Just be aware that these items are designer and that’s a Gucci bomber jacket,” I tell her. “I’ll give you $7,” she says. And this exchange begins my endless speech about costs, designer goods and the fact that I have no authority to price anything. Not to mention I have to find a million different ways to tactfully let women know that the clothes are sized small and very fitted. At first I try to be discreet when I see a clearly, not-size-four woman trying to stuff herself into a quilted blazer. Her giant linebacker shoulders are stretching the expensive Italian fabric to within an inch of its life and just before the material gives away completely, I make an announcement to the entire room that the woman who owned these clothes is a very petite size four. With that announcement one-third of the room clears out and the remaining women are still convincing themselves that they are a size four. I lean up against the door surveying the various women as they struggle with blouses and pants and the benign smile on my face belies my actual thoughts that are, “Put down the stretch pants. They don’t stretch THAT much.” I am afraid that the woman with the 38DD chest who is trying on a tiny Givenchy silk blouse will fire a missile-like button my way and put out an eye. And, I desperately want to tell the wide-hipped woman who is holding up a small gold skirt that the fact there are eight inches of her hips showing on either side of the skirt means it WILL….NOT…..FIT! But, instead I smile and try to direct these women over to the accessories table where there are some nice handbags and scarves.

 

Besides trying to be friendly to the women in the clothing room, I also field at least 10 requests per minute from women who want to use the restroom. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but the owners have requested that no one use the restrooms.” Of course, that doesn’t stop me from finding the best bathroom in the house to use myself. I marvel at the imported tile and gilt fixtures while feeling no guilt at all about the crossed-legged, bladder exploding women looking for empty cups to pee in. Which brings me to my other pet peeve, doors bearing signs that say, “DO NOT ENTER.” I have come to the conclusion that a closed door with a Do Not Enter sign on it is more tempting to the general public than an unaccompanied bag of money lying in the middle of the street. What do they think is behind these doors? Is there a hidden hallway to a magical world? Is there a mystic waiting to tell them the secret meaning of life? The Beatles? I have no answer. All I know is that every time it gets quiet in the hallway and I hear a small, elongated squeak, I know someone is opening a Do Not Enter door. I like to sneak up behind them and just stand there until they feel my breath on the back of their necks and then I say, “Looking for something?” I suppose I could be nicer about it, but then that would be going against my natural inclination.

 

I think my father was the first one who noticed that I was not what one might call, “A people person.” I distinctly remember overhearing a conversation he had on the phone with a neighbor once who called to ask if I ever babysit. “You don’t want her watching your kids,” my father said. I did kind of smirk to myself that my father who had less of a filter on his thoughts than I do was so honest about my love for children. My dad was also concerned when I got a new job as a server at Red Lobster. “You will be dealing with people all day,” he warned me. “These people will be tipping you on your service and how friendly you are.” He paused for a moment, shook his head and said, “I’m afraid you’ll be broke.” I am happy to report that my father was wrong. I was a wonderful server at Red Lobster. I made a lot of friends and a lot of tips and aside from the occasional platter of raw oysters slipping into a particularly nasty customer’s lap, and one empty coffee pot hurling across the dining room, I was a pro. In fact, I was named “Server of the Month” many times and when I left, the manager retired my server number. I like to think that my people-pleasing days at Red Lobster must have been a brief opening into a parallel universe.

***

As my time at the estate sale comes to a close, I am relieved to say that I enjoyed the experience. I ended up talking with some very nice people, I actually escorted one woman (and her dog) to an off limits bathroom, and I helped another woman happily walk away with a full-length, beaded, deerskin dress. I didn’t encounter any shoplifters, although I did keep an eye on one shifty-eyed man who kept coming in and looking at the knit Christmas sweaters. My friend, Debi, always tells me that she meets the most interesting people just by simply speaking to strangers. I’m not there yet. None of the strangers I met at the estate sale impressed me enough to want to further a connection.

 

At the end of the final weekend, when my gig was over, I straightened up the clothing room, grabbed a lovely Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater that I had purchased and took one last look around my lovely private bathroom. As I headed down the sweeping staircase I saw Michael, now wearing a too large, loudly striped Versace sports coat and schmoozing with some customers. They were all laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves as Michael wrote up a ticket for an expensive grand piano. As their laughter reached me, I smiled to myself and shook my head at Michael’s easy way with people. Clearly, he has a gift. Perhaps I should see if Red Lobster is hiring.

###

 

 

A new study recently came out from Brigham Young University, which suggests that “engaging with Disney princess culture could make young children more susceptible to gender stereotypes.” The study, by family-life professor Sarah M. Coyne, involved 198 preschoolers. The children were asked to rank their favorite toys among girl toys (dolls, etc.,) and boy toys (trucks, tools, etc.). The end result revealed that more than 61% of girls played with princess toys at least once a week, compared to 4% of boys. The girls preferred girl toys and the boys preferred boy toys (not in the same way Madonna preferred Boy Toys). The study also indicated that playing with Disney princess toys was “associated with more female gender-stereotypical behavior a year later.” Really? I am astonished at this conclusion. Who would have ever imagined that more girls played with princess toys than boys? I don’t know how much Brigham Young University shelled out to Professor Coyne to conduct this study, but if they had asked me, I could have given them the same result in a five minute phone call – free of charge. The good professor further suggested that Disney princesses, just like Barbie, give young girls a false impression of beauty, which can lead to eating disorders, depression and in their teenaged years, “risky sexual behavior.” I can’t comment on eating disorders or depression, but I do know that a dark basement, an Aerosmith album and two bottles of Boone’s Farm wine caused risky sexual behavior when I was a teen. Trust me, the last thing I was thinking about in that basement was my Barbie doll.

Now, I didn’t have the explosion of Disney princesses when I was a child, but I did love fairy tales. There were plenty of princesses in those stories. In fact, I think the fairy tale princesses had a lot more fun than the watered down, barely royal, vague, just because you wear a long dress, Disney princesses of today. If you were a princess in a fairy tale, every day of your life was fraught with danger. Not a day went by that a fairy tale princess didn’t face death. Real death. They weren’t just frozen by some jealous ice queen, or chased by a big green ogre. They could be imprisoned, poisoned, forced into manual labor, stolen by witches, or just be ruled by a despotic father who happened to be King and also an asshole. Those princesses worked for their gowns and their crowns. Let it also be noted that fairy tale princesses didn’t come with annoying songs that got repeated thousands of times a day until every inch of your brain was taken up with endless choruses of “Let it Go!” I only remember one song, Whistle While You Work, and that was from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Sorry – I mean Snow Caucasian and the Seven Little People (some fairy tales today have been rewritten to be politically correct). My parents were spared any continuous singing of that song because I never learned how to whistle. My version was more like “Hum While You Work.” Even though my favorite fairytales didn’t have special effects animated movies or themed pajamas, I don’t think I would have wanted Cinderella or Snow White in place of my slim, long-legged, bleach blonde Barbie.

As for blaming Barbie for causing unrealistic body standards in girls, I think that is highly unfair. I can’t think of any time when my friend, Nancy, and I were playing with our Barbie dolls that I ever said, “I wish I had big, plastic pointed boobs and arms and legs that don’t bend.” Never! I was also quite happy with my real feet that didn’t bend in awkward positions that made it impossible to keep those plastic high heel mules from falling off. My father was gouged many times by lost Barbie heels that got stuck in the sofa and ended up implanted in his leg. I don’t know how many the dog ate. Anyone from my generation knows the frustration of trying to put Barbie in pretend life situations with her unbendable body. My Barbie had a telephone that she could never answer because her arm stuck straight out, which made it impossible to put the phone up to her ear. The only job Barbie could have had back then would have been priming water pumps or as a professional hand shaker. Regardless of her limitations, Barbie was the best doll we ever had. We didn’t want her body; we wanted her life.

To us, Barbie’s life was a lot more glamorous than what we lived in our cookie cutter subdivision. She had great clothes, a swanky dream house and a pink convertible. We wanted her “stuff” not her minuscule waist and slim boy hips. Besides, the only reason the doll was made that way was so it would be easier to dress her in those tiny, tiny clothes. Any woman today, with real thighs and hips, understands the impossibility of pulling up a pencil skirt without first greasing her legs. I can assure you that at no time while trying to accomplish the hop-jump-hop dance of trying to fit into skinny jeans have I ever uttered, “Damn you Barbie! Why aren’t I built like you?” You’re more likely to hear me say, “Damn you peanut butter fudge brownies! Why did I eat six?” Barbie has nothing to do with how my body turned out or how I view it. If young girls today are having body image insecurities, don’t blame the dolls; blame the media.

When was the last time anyone appeared in a magazine without his or her photo being retouched? It might have been in the 1960s when the Beatles were on the cover of Life Magazine. Today, all we see are retouched photos of women’s thighs being slimmed so there’s a “gap.” Wrinkles, moles, and spots are magically erased. Waists are slimmed down, calves get a little added definition, and the rear end is jacked up higher than a Cadillac getting an oil change. There is a reason Cindy Crawford looks exactly the same in magazines today as she did 25 years ago and it has nothing to do with her natural beauty. If no one is criticizing the false impression of celebrities and models (who, by the way, are made of much more plastic than Barbie) then leave Barbie alone.

Now, I am all for making more ethnic dolls. I think it’s important for girls to have dolls that they can relate to physically, but not to the extent of the American Girl dolls. The American Girl dolls look like they were manufactured in Hell. They have creepy Stepford Wife eyes that peer deep into your soul. Not since Chucky has a doll frightened me more. When I was a kid I never would have wanted a doll that looked exactly like me. I can’t imagine waking up in the middle of the night and seeing that deadeye stare from some plastic representation of me sitting at the foot of my bed. I once had a doll that stood nearly four feet tall and had long blond hair. She was my size at the time and I would put my clothes on her. I can’t tell you how many times, while I was at school, my mother walked into my room and screamed. That doll mysteriously disappeared, although I once found a plastic foot under my bed.

My absolute favorite doll was Raggedy Ann. And trust me that was one doll I never wanted to look like either. What twisted mind came up with that prototype? “Let’s make a doll with black button shark eyes, no discerning facial features, yarn hair, striped legs, and let’s make her as flat as a pancake.” Of course, if Raggedy Ann wasn’t weird enough, the manufacturer tossed in her brother, Andy, to complete the strange family. But, as much as I loved my Raggedy Ann and Andy, it was Barbie who held my attention. Nancy and I would spend hours playing with our Barbie dolls. Every once in a while G.I. Joe and Ken would show up and take our dolls out on the town. We learned valuable lessons from Barbie. We learned how to coordinate clothes, how to dress appropriately for each occasion and I learned never to take the pony tail out of Barbie’s hair because it just leaves a big bald spot on the back of her head. My Barbie wore a lot of hats.

The bottom line is, sometimes a doll is just a doll. And while the manufacturer is making Barbie with thicker waists, wider hips and thunder thighs, how about adding a little realism to Ken? How come he still has the impossible physique of a plastic, 18-year-old athlete with washboard abs? Where’s his beer gut? How about putting some hair in his ears and giving him a receding hairline? If Barbie had to endure gaining wide birthing hips, how about giving Ken back hair and saggy man boobs? There’s something very unfair about this. And, you can bet her sweet Mattel stamped ass that when Ken gets a load of Barbie’s new “normal” body, he’s going to make a beeline for her pre-teen sister Skipper. Now, that’s reality.

 

 

I don’t normally like to review community theater productions. Having acted in them for a number of years now, I understand there are limitations. The only thing that is usually more bankrupt than the theater’s budget is the community’s talent. However, after having recently witnessed a local production of Jesus Christ Superstar, the theater critic inside of me is bursting at the seams. The production I saw was held in a small theater strategically placed at the end of a strip mall next to a Super Cuts and a Dollar Store. The strip mall is right down the street from an airport and I think the theater had at one time been an airplane hanger. It’s just possible that after this production, the building may once again revert back to hosting planes instead of plays.

The only reason I attended this performance was because a friend of mine had the coveted role of Judas. Before I go any further, let me just say that my friend, Jason, is a fantastic singer and has a commanding presence on stage. His talent was far above the rest of the cast and to me that disparity made this performance even funnier. I have also been in my fair share of plays that were not Tony Award winning material so I know how it is to stage a production with less than stellar casting. I once had to play a 15-year-old prostitute in a production of Oliver when I was in my 40s. Luckily for me, no one wrote a review of my performance. Unfortunately, the cast of Jesus Christ Superstar will not be as lucky.

From the first moment the play started and the ensemble stumbled on stage singing ‘Hosanna’ and waving plastic palm fronds, I knew I was in for a treat. One of the most important things about staging and costuming is to stay true to the time period. If you’re producing Fiddler on the Roof, you should never see Tevye’s cell phone peeking out from under his tallit. Now, I wasn’t around 2,000 odd years ago but I’m almost positive that black ballet flats and zippers weren’t around then either. Although, I think the plastic frond waving man who was wearing glasses was the biggest costume offender. Unless Visionworks had a Jerusalem branch, I think he should have left his glasses backstage. Or, better yet, since Jesus healed the blind, I’m sure he could have helped this guy out.

And speaking of Jesus, this was the most timid portrayal of Jesus I have ever seen. He was small and thin and the side part in his hair was so straight and even he must have used a level. He looked like a real estate agent in sandals. Although, while the non-descript Jesus blended in perfectly with the ensemble, it was Mary Magdalene and Simon who really stood out. Simon had braided hair extensions that were not only piled on top of his head, but also cascaded down his back. It was obvious to me that Simon and Jesus must have visited the Super Cuts next door before they took the stage. But, at least their hair was their own. Two other men wore wigs that they must have found in the bottom of the prop box. One wig was an extremely shiny silver color that reflected off the lights like a disco ball. It was reminiscent of something Andy Warhol may have worn – and it was lopsided. Mary Magdalene, on the other hand, must have visited Fredericks of Jerusalem because underneath her sheer tunic she was wearing black Spanx and a push-up bra. Jesus was nervous every time she shimmied up to him. I quickly forgot all of these costume catastrophes, though, when Caiaphas and Annas took the stage.

I’m not exactly sure what type of robe a Roman high priest may have worn back then, but I’m almost certain that a black latex skirt and midriff top would have been an inappropriate choice. Both Caiaphas and Annas looked like their costumes were inspired by a 1980s Judas Priest video. Annas was the first to saunter downstage mustering up as much power as he could to belt out his solo. With his clenched fists and narrowed eyes, the last thing I expected to hear coming out of his mouth was the high-pitched voice of Mariah Carey. There were some notes I’m sure only dogs could hear. Obviously, the most powerful weapon Annas possessed was his ability to shatter glass; if glass had been invented then. It was a much different story when Caiaphas sang. His voice was ultra low and rumbled like a bad dishwasher motor. This Caiaphas also had a lisp. At one point I leaned over to my husband and asked, “Did he just say bring me the head of Jethus?” Yes. Yes he did. He spent the whole night shouting to the audience that he was looking for “Jethus all over Jeruthalem.” Several times I, myself, wanted to give up Jethus’ location just to shut him up, and Caiaphas could have kept his 30 pieces of silver. Then, Judas came out.

There is a powerful scene in Jesus Christ Superstar where Jesus and Judas face off. The battle between good and evil comes to a head in this duet and normally the audience is rooting for good! Not this time. Judas was so overpowering both physically and vocally that I thought Jesus was going to pick up his dress and run off stage crying. This night, I’m sorry to say, evil won. Poor Jesus. He really was having a bad night; and this was way before he got crucified. I had hoped that maybe if we saw him perform a miracle or two it would boost his image. Since he obviously failed to do anything about the guy wearing glasses, I still believed that we’d see him walk on water or heal the lepers. However, after the lepers came out, I had to face the agonizing truth that if this Jesus did attempt to walk on water, he would drown.

Speaking of the Lepers. While Jesus is singing some song about questioning his faith and his duty to God, lepers looking to be healed suddenly overtake him. They ambled out from behind the curtain like stiff zombies covered in burlap. Their arms were outstretched and apparently the leprosy had eaten away their kneecaps because no one was able to bend their legs. One by one these stiff-legged lepers swarmed Jesus while he tried to lay his healing hands upon them. I’m not going to pretend that I’ve read the Bible all the way through because I haven’t. But I do have enough knowledge of the New Testament to know that when Jesus lays his hands on the lepers they are healed. That’s one of the biggest miracles he performs. Personally, I prefer the turning water into wine miracle, but I guess if your limbs were falling off from leprosy you’d rather have this miracle. Unfortunately, the director here didn’t quite get the story right, because after Jesus touched these lepers, they still had leprosy. I expected them to toss off their burlap coverings, fall down on their newly replaced knees and give thanks for being healed. Nope. They continued to walk stiff-legged off the stage moaning and groaning, and still in search of a cure. I also noticed that there appeared to be many more lepers than there were cast members. After a few rounds I realized that the same people just kept walking around backstage and coming out again. Maybe they kept thinking Jesus would get it right on the third or fourth trip around. (Note: He never did).

While I was still reeling from the clown car of lepers, I was glad that they hurried up the Last Supper and got right to Pontius Pilate’s hand washing and sentencing of Jesus. Apparently, they didn’t really have much on Jesus, because when Pilate unrolled his scroll to read the charges, it was only about six inches long. I’ve gotten longer receipts from CVS. Anyway, the crowd cheered, they stripped Jesus of his robe and he was left wearing a makeshift loincloth with a nice elastic waistband and white boxer shorts. In the Bible it is written that the Romans gambled for Jesus’ robe because it was so fine. That didn’t happen here. Someone just walked away with his robe, but I do think the Romans were intrigued by the elastic waistband and boxer shorts. They may have gambled for them after the play ended, but now they had to get ready for the crucifixion scene.

From somewhere off stage left, two guys came out carrying the cross. The cross had two handles and a footrest on it. This was going to be the most comfortable crucifixion in history. The only thing missing was a pillow for his head. I think they got the cross from La-Z-Boy. I was too far away to see, but there might have been a cup holder on it too. So, while the off-stage chorus sang the title song, Jesus uttered a few words and then hung his head. I couldn’t tell if that meant he died or he was just ashamed of the part he played in this travesty. The lights went down, but not enough that you couldn’t see Jesus hop down from the cross’ footrest and walk away. He could have at least limped a little. The final scene was Peter and Simon rolling out a big rock (which was really a Styrofoam circle painted gray). They pretended that it was really, really heavy but since it was only three-quarters of an inch thick, I knew they were acting. They rolled the big “rock” in front of a door at the end of the stage and then they walked away. After they exited, a bright light shone from behind the rock and then disappeared. I’m not sure if that was supposed to symbolize the resurrection, or if Jesus was reading a Kindle. Either way, that was the end of the play and the newly resurrected Jesus emerged once again from offstage, joined hands with the people who had just killed him and took a bow.

As we were exiting the theater I heard someone in the crowd whispering something about an upcoming production of “South Pacific.” I only hope that the guy with the lisp will be out of town.