Operation Sparkle Recovery

It is 7:30 am on Saturday. I am propped up in bed, cup of coffee steaming gently in my hand. My comforter is covered with cat hair, and my laundry hamper is overflowing. I take another sip of coffee and listen to the sounds of birds in the redwoods outside my open window.

The caffeine is hitting my system now – and the sounds of the neighborhood waking join the birds. Cars swish, the jangle of a leash and tags as a neighbor passes by with her dogs. My own dogs are frolicking in the yard, and my cats are lined up, demanding kibble and attention. Another sip.

I am a bit jittery now – I don’t usually have real coffee – but I am trying to shake off the haze of another long week, restless sleep and the funk that comes with an overwhelming list of undone projects. I meant to meditate this morning to set myself up for a serene approach to my to-dos. After a brief attempt at a guided meditation, I am going to ride the jittery wave to tackle a few physical tasks. Mindfulness will come later.

My coffee is cold now. I swig the last mouthful and return the stare of my cat, who has joined me on the bed. It’s time to get moving.

Seeing Hamilton

NaBloPoMo #4 (I am cheating and catching up because whose rules? MY RULES.)

So, last December (or was it November? It’s a blur, sir) I spent hours in an online queue to obtain tickets for the San Francisco production of Hamilton. At that point, I’d heard parts of songs, but planned to go into the live show with the intent to experience it all for the first time at the same time.

One week on a tour bus with an 8th Grade history class touring Pennsylvania and Washington DC ruined that notion but good. I ended up listening to the show start to finish dozens (hundreds?) of times before we set foot in The Room Where It Happens.

You could buy six tickets at a time. I have five members of my family, so that sixth ticket was a subject of much discussion. Who would be our lucky guest? And by lucky, I mean, they’d get to see Hamilton, but they’d have to ride crammed into the back of our dirty minivan with the kids in order to get there, and they’d have to sit with us and endure us mouthing the lyrics and possibly weeping prematurely before all the sad moments. My sister ended up getting the nod, and we folded her up and tucked her into the van, where she kept her cool through some Very Theatrical Interpretive Singing and fighting over who got to be Burr for the ride down.

Unlike me, my sister was basically a Hamilton virgin, having only heard a song or two, and having no idea about the whole story. So she had the experience I had planned on for myself, and she loved it, but in the end, I’m glad I was there in the audience, versed enough in the music that had something befallen a star, I could have not thrown away my shot.

Anyway, it was absolutely amazing, and worth every penny. Plus, we all pose like this on the regular now.

 

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