On Saturday, I took the kids on a "Faery Hunt." This basically means I forked over my shekels to tromp around Griffith Park for an hour plus in search of actors dressed in tights. We were met by a fairy docent, who spoke in an alarmingly high-pitched voice. She wore khakis, as if going on safari, however, instead of a pith helmet, an incongruous purple church hat perched on her head. Before the hunt, she convinced the children in an over-rehearsed tea and crumpet accent to collect leaves and twigs and pine cones as offerings for the fairies. She kept referring to pine cones as fairy condos. (Try explaining that to your six year old.) Then we were off, in search of wee folk with wee plot lines.
Here's what I understood. The quirky, sidekick fairy led us to the incredibly attractive blond fairy, who taught us to bow before the grand queen. (So far, a typical night in West Hollywood.) The queen, who helps us humans with our slumber, had her "light" stolen. She believed the smelly troll took it. We were then encouraged to laugh and applaud, a ploy to bring the troll out of hiding, for evidently he loves to ham it up. (Once again, any Saturday night on Santa Monica Blvd.) He made his entrance with overly large ears and two cohorts, a gnome in need of an English as a Second Language class, and an inbred brownie named Cletis, who sounded like a long lost day player from The Beverly Hillbillies. Turns out, it wasn't the troll who took the "light" but the half-man/half-bird. Some hilarity ensued. The half-bird part was somehow magically removed, leaving behind a hunka hunka burnin' love. The "light" was returned. And the queen got the hunka in the end. (The conclusion to any decent gay porn.)
Towards the beginning of the show, one of the patrons, a mommy with bitter etched deeply onto her face, started to complain loudly to the fairy docent. She asserted the material was too young for her precious daughter. And she continually spat out, "and it's her birthday," as if to verbally tear a mortal wound into Fairy Docent, or at least knock the hideous, grape hat off her head. Now, Precious Daughter and her posse of four looked to be in fifth grade. With arms crossed and whatever attitudes, they were definitely too old for fairies, Santa Clause, My Pretty Pony, Strawberry Shortcake and plays in Griffith Park depicting any of the above. How could Bitter Mommy not know this? I immediately judged her for lack of insight.
Contrary to her daughter, my six year old son and his friends had that look of wonder plastered on their faces from the get go. They willingly bowed to the queen, clapped for the troll, and gathered fairy condos. If asked, these believers would have stripped naked and eaten dirt.
My two year old daughter is another story. She loved dressing in the wings and frou frou skirt, but once she realized the event was not about her, she lost interest. As we slowly meandered from fairy scene to fairy scene, she'd stop to show me rocks and twigs. When I insisted we watch the play unfold, she burrowed her head into my shoulder in defiance. And I missed when the half-man/half-bird divested himself of anything avian, because I had to take my out-of-control tot to a nearby picnic table and force feed her Goldfish.
Here's the gripe: I paid the same for my two year old as I did for myself. Isn't that a kick in the tender vittles. Ten smackeroos for each of us. (Thank God Michael wasn't there. Well, he's so fairy friendly, we might have received a sprightly kickback.) The other parents from Sebastian's class didn't complain as loudly. Made me feel like a cheap somabitch. But thirty simoleons, people!!
If the "Faery Hunt" folks happen to read this... I called you and asked about age appropriateness. I was assured that my two year old would be suitably fairy smitten. Well, you were wrong. (It just now occurs to me, you might have said the same to Bitter Mommy about her fifth grader, totally justifying her anger. Sorry, Mommy, I humbly take back any judgement.) I have a suggestion to keep patrons like me from blogging their dissatisfaction. How bout you charge only five greenbacks for the little ones, for pixie's sake. Still pricey, but I wouldn't feel so entirely ripped off. Or at least offer me incentives: dry martini, shrimp cocktail, Cletis lap dance. I could live with that.
The other first, coincidentally another theatrical event costing ten clams, last Friday I performed my first blog entry, Orts which was reworked for the stage. I'm excited about this cross over from computer screen to stage. Who knows where this could go. As a matter of fact, I already have my second blog performance on the books. On Mother's Day, I'll be performing Mommy With a Penis in Santa Monica, in an evening that will include Laraine Newman.
Lately, it doesn't feel like my life is filled with many firsts. The routine of mommydom has taken care of that. But if this inauguration week has taught me anything, change is in the air. Perhaps I have to make myself chase after the firsts. MommyWife could become a book of witty stories. Or a television series. Or my own one man show. If I go that route, however, I can guarantee you, my antics will be a different kind of fairy tale entirely.