How Do I Manage To Get Roped Into These Things?

HOW DO I MANAGE TO GET ROPED INTO THESE THINGS?

That was the phrase that ran through my head as I sat in the old, faintly lit gymnasium at my niece Laura’s school. It all started with that innocent wide-eyed look all kids give you before they drop the bomb. My niece fixed her large blue eyes on me and said, “Aunt Hammy, are you going to my Spring Concert?” She managed to get that sentence out before cramming in a sizable mouthful of macaroni and cheese, and then proceeded to watch me with those abnormally large kid eyes as she chewed.

I managed to sputter something along the lines of, “Your Spring Concert? I didn’t know such a thing existed.” That was met by silence. Ok, ok I thought, “When is it?” I said. Secretly hoping it was weeks or better yet months away. “Tonight.” she said between bites. I was had, and by a ten year old no less, “Tonight!! Well, well.” Pause. I had to ask, I knew I had to ask, I didn’t want to ask, but I had to ask, so I asked. “What time??” “Seven.” she said. My head swiveled around a few times trying to find a clock on display somewhere sensible, but I was eating dinner at my mother’s house, where nothing is sensible. “It’s a quarter to six.” My mother blurted. Since the clocks were no where to be seen, she was free to conjure up a time that suited her, and I was helpless to refute. “Well… Diana, Lilia, would you like to see Laura’s concert?” “Oh yeah! Can we go, Mom?” of course my oldest daughter, Diana-the-traitor, was the first to answer. “Lilia? Would you like to see Laura’s concert?” “No.” she said between concentrated bites of macaroni and cheese. I always liked that kid, I thought. “They’re having an ice cream social after the concert.” my Judas-of-a-mother piped in. “Yes.” recanted my always-ready-to-eat-junk-food daughter still concentrating intently on shoveling in macaroni and cheese. Boy did my mother know her grandkids. “Okay then!” I smiled a tight little post-facelift kind of smile. “Well Laura, I guess we’re going.”

On our way to sitting in our very uncomfortable standard issue fold-out chairs I spot my brother’s ex-wife sitting with her shiny new husband and her mother and father. For some reason, I thought of Mt. Rushmore and as we filed down the unfortunately narrow aisle I gave them a sickly Pepto-Bismol smile, all the while thinking Oh great!! I’m squarely in the enemy camp with my brother and his second wife one step behind me, and my supportive-of-their-son parents’ one step ahead of me. I can feel the glacier ice barrier forming as we pass, all choosing to sit a semi-safe distance of ten rows down. That’s the second reason I don’t like these little “activities” – family baggage. The first reason, simply being…..they suck.

So here I sit, feeling like I was beamed down from some alien ship that wrenched me out of my nice quiet plans and plunked me into the Our Lady of Perpetual Motion's very ancient gymnasium cum auditorium to hear the annual “Spring Concert” as performed by the “Our Lady of Perpetual Motion Chorus” and the “Our Lady of Perpetual Motion Band”. Originality is not the strongpoint of Catholics.

How do I get myself roped into these things!?! I scan the audience and notice a couple I nickname Ms. Highlights and Mister capped-teeth. He is either the current boyfriend or the new "number two". I can tell because they’re so touchy-feely. That and the fact that he keeps smiling at the bratty little darling that is so obviously hers. The smile isn’t the teeth-sucking eye-tick generating constipated grimace that says “As soon as we get home you are so-oo Dead Meat, Mister!!” but the ever so phony “Oh isn’t the little tyke just so full of energy and, what a personality!” It’s the kind of smile worn by politicians on the stump and CEO’s on the witness stand.

I scanned down the program. Wow, there’s a lot of stuff here. Ok, Three Choral readings, five chorus selections, nine band songs. I quickly assign times. Let’s see, four minutes for each reading, no make it five minutes…each song three, maybe four minutes….each band song four minutes at least…speeches, clapping, shuffling of small children and other assorted bullshit fifteen minutes…ok that’s…fifteen plus twenty aaaaand…four times nine equals thirty-six, plus the fifteen….Oh my God, that’s an hour and a half! I must have had a sick look on my face because just then my newest sister-in-law leaned over and said, “I haven’t talked to you in a while. Are you Ok?” “Yeah, I’m fine.” I said. She didn’t look too convinced, maybe it was the twitch, or the escaping drool…just then one of the teachers started climbing up the stage stairs huffing and puffing, with a microphone in hand. “Boy’s and Girl’s” she wheezed, “We don’t mind if you want to sit in the bleachers but pleeeeze stay in one spot!” At that, all parental and grandparental heads turned around to quickly eye-spot their progeny. Of the three children running loose in the bleachers…two of them were mine. I nearly sprained an eyeball as I gave my fiercest “you two are as dead as proverbial doornails” look to them while they scrambled to find a bench to sit on figuring, quite rightly, that I would not go after them in front of so many potentially interviewable witnesses.

The clock ticked sloooowly toward seven, and after the obligatory welcoming speeches and the Pledge of Allegiance led by….the Boy Scout troop, the patched and worn theater curtains parted and….oh, no! The choral readings were little mini plays! The first one took nine minutes. Ok, don’t panic, recalculate...maybe some of the songs will be three minutes…bring the baby kissing bullshit down to ten minutes…oh God, it’s no use. An eternity, that’s what this is an eternity!

The plays were very badly done, the equivalent of twelve kids with marbles in their mouths talking way too fast. But finally it’s over! Ok, twenty minutes….there is still a chance if the chorus sings fast. Aaaaaand…..the first song is Old Dan Tucker! Oh pleeeeze! Someone just shoot me now, now, now…please. Dan Tucker is sung not once, not twice, but threeeee times! But it does get better (not!) the next tune is a rousingly bad version of…Penny Lane! Is that creaking sound the old stage floor or John Lennon turning in his grave? As if Penny Lane wasn’t bad enough the next song is a pop tune called, Accidentally in Love! What can be worse than forty small children crooning “Oh, baby, baby…” Help please God I will start going to confession I promise please….just let them sing a little faster! The Chorus takes a short break and the Band takes over. The first selection is a completely indistinguishable version of Mozart’s Minuet. Indistinguishable from alley cats routing around in trash bins while the neighbors throw shoes…. Funny, I’ve never heard Mozart played with drums before. The stunned audience barely has time to recover when Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer is performed, oh so badly. One and a half beats too slow and with plenty of very enthusiastic drumming (sigh)…twice…(sigh). I scan down the list of remaining songs to be slaughtered and my eyes rest in horror upon the next piece on the chopping block. All Blues by none other than Miles Davis. Sacrilege! Vexation! I almost jump up and shout “Blasphemers!” but manage to gain control. I console myself with the humorous visual of the jazz-philistine music teacher sprinting across the gymnasium to switch mike cords and plug outlets around with every instrument solo played. The tune creaks and groans on, like a doomed phantom sailing ship abandoned in the lost seas. My father leans over and says, “The original goes for ten minutes.” I blink a few times, thinking of the genius that was Miles Davis and say in response, “Yeah, but you don’t mind listening to the original, do ya?” Just as I’m thanking God there isn’t a trumpet player, my father leans over - after one particularly fervent post-solo round of parental applause - and whispers “That was for effort.” Now I start to smile, and the smile turns into a chuckle. The more I try not to laugh, the harder I am laughing until my hand has to clap over my mouth. My mother notices and leans over “What did he say?” she says, watching me wipe a rolling tear from the corner of my eye. I lean over to speak but all I can do is snort. I can’t talk, but I’m snorting and laughing, my hand clasped over my mouth, my finger wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. Then my mother starts laughing. I know she is laughing because I am laughing, and not because she knows why I’m laughing. But my father knows why I’m laughing, and he sees my mother and me laughing, so he starts laughing too. Oh, this is so bad. I am sure I’m sitting right in front of drum-solo boy’s parents. I know I’m sitting right behind electric-guitar-solo boy’s parents, and I know drum-solo boy’s parents are glaring at me because I can feel the imaginary daggers sticking in my back. But I’m shaking with silent laughter and snorting in between gasps of air and thanking the Saints above that drum-solo boy is so very, very enthusiastic about his part. When it all settles down we are treated to an interesting version of the Flintstones theme song, Beethoven’s Fifth (I wish I had a fifth right now) and The Chicken Dance in that order. I happen to glance at the clock and see that it’s nearly eight. I’ve never gone this long listening to music that’s so bad, I think to myself. Some of the Chorus kids must have felt the same because a few of the older boys in the back row stand up and start doing the Chicken Dance. A couple of audience members start doing The Chicken Dance, and that’s all the kids need to see, before you know it they are all doing The Chicken Dance. Just when I start praying the Beer Barrel Polka doesn’t follow little Johnny breaks into his showcased electric guitar solo. One woman has to carry her toddler son out of the Gym – as he’s holding his hands over his ears, and in the meantime Ms. Highlights little darling starts kicking her in the shins. After a few pathetic attempts at restraint from Mr. Caps, he picks the boy up and starts heading for the door. Little Darling’s feet are still swinging, and I can’t decide if the worried look on Ms. Highlights face is due to the concern for Mr. Caps family jewels or the obvious glee that Little Darling is showing as he aims for them.

Suddenly, the Chorus is back from their break and the two final songs are to be a grisly joint slaughter. After a little dose of patriotism, courtesy of the Boy Scouts, we all join together in a reeeeally slow screechy version of America the Beautiful but since no one but the Chorus kids know the actual words the audience sings the second verse twice. Oh well, who needed that third verse anyway! We end with Take Me out to the Ball Game, and since it’s the blessedly last song of the evening I don’t even mind that it’s sung twice. The final applause was wholehearted and verrrry genuine, especially mine.