Come back to Sorrento

On Friday he said, that for our "date night" he wanted to stay home and make pasta together. It's not what I would have picked, but he said that making the pasta was something we could do together, we could reminisce about our time in Italy, and not spend any more money that we don't have.

I could see his point, and the idea was so sweet. Plus, it totally achieved my goal of spending time with him, holding hands, laughing and smiling (without him being diplomatic and pretending to be happy), like he was in Italy.

I got home first, and rushed to get the kitchen ready. Oh, I'd just happened to have made a luxurious chicken stock during the week. I hadn't strained it and divided it into freezable containers yet. So, and I was so excited about this idea, I strained the stock, put it in a new pot and added a whole fresh chicken that I simmered for an hour - while I got dishes put away, and both dishwashers going. (I've taken to gabbing the big bowls and pots and trudging down the stairs to the other kitchen. I mean, there's a dishwasher there too, right? Might as well use it.)

I was a little tuckered out by the time he got home - all that running up and down stairs, and scrubbing of kitchen counters. So, I made a cup of coffee and took a break when he got home, while he made the pasta dough, and we tried to recall Miya's name - she taught us to make pasta in a thousand year old cantina in the Tuscan Hills and Olive Groves outside of Florence.

I took the chicken out and let it rest, while the pasta dough was resting. And I added two cups of hot stock to a large onion I had caramelized in a sauce pan, plus two cloves of crushed garlic, two tablespoons of chopped fresh herbs from the garden (thyme, sage, rosemary), a half cup of white wine, and the juices from the bowl roasted red peppers - and I let it boil until reduced by half. Oh the kitchen was really smelling good.

While I did that, Rolf hung the pasta rack that Puck and Memae gave us for Christmas last year.

Then we made wide ribbons of pasta, let them dry, while we had a glass of wine and set the table. I deboned half the chicken, toasted a cup of pine nuts, while he grated the parmigiana regiano. I boiled the fresh pasta in the chicken stock, and finished it off in the chicken wine roasted pepper sauce, adding a cup of cheese, a cup of roasted pepper diamonds, and let it rest.

Sitting at the dining room table we toasted:

"Vive Italia"
"Here's to La Lanternadue"
And we laughed, remembering how we sat at the lovely table in the ally of the LaLanternadue restaurant, rolling the name around and trying to figure out what it meant. And laughing when remembered our third visit to the best restaurant in Sorrento, where we finally realized that LaLanternadue, was the The Lantern Restaurante #2.

Come Back To Sorrento

(Ernesto DeCurtis)

---

Sunlight dances on the sea
Tender thoughts occur to me
I have often seen your eyes
In the nighttime when I dream

When I pass a garden fair
And the scent is in the air
In my mind a dream awakes
And my heart begins to break

But you said goodbye to me
Now all I can do is grieve
Can it be that you forgot?
Darling forget me not!

Please don't say farewell
And leave this heart that's broken
Come back to Sorrento
So I can mend

Thursday afternoon, Rolf and I had a meeting with a financial planner. So we got out of work early and got to spend some time together at a restaurant. Rolf had called in the day and asked if I would mind if he played geezerball that evening. I would mind, I told him. I'm sick of him getting home at 8:30, and I told him so. So, because of that I didn't want him to go. But he loves it so much, and it's the only exercise he gets. So I gave in. But he was being very sweet. When I had told him "It was a long, boring, lonely day; and nothing happened. I'm glad it's over," the night before, it hurt him. So, he was going to fix it. He is a sweetheart. But life is hard.

"I've decided that we need to hug every hour"

"You have, have you?"

"Yes, we need more hugging."

So, we hugged in the kitchen where I'd been putting away the dishes. That was a nice moment, silent promises.

But when he came back saying

"It's been an hour. Time for a hug."

"I'm not going to just hug you every hour.
You need to talk to me nicely first.
Otherwise, it's just labor . . . harassment . . . and you have to kiss me first."

I am an idiot. We didn't hug so much. When he did something nice, and I went for a kiss and a hug, he was still stinging from my rejection of his grand gesture. But we did hug. Before he left he said that Friday would our date night, and

"What would you like to do?"

"I would like to do something that you would enjoy.
Something that would make you laugh and smile,
without pretending that you're having a good time."

"OK, well, I'll think of something and I'll let you know."

And he gave me a sweet kiss and squeeze on the shoulders and he was gone.

The One Where Rolf Decides We Should Hug Every Hour

Rolf has been working from 10-7 at his new assignment downtown. 10-7, plus an hour and fifteen minutes on DC's crap subway system, puts him home at 8:15 at the earliest. It's gotten upsetting. That, and him not talking to me except to look at me with this piercing glare of extreme emptiness, which I'm left to interpret. Mornings start that way, no good morning, evenings begin that way, no, sorry I'm late, I'm so glad to be home. . .

Wednesday, he came home, Bailey rushed off to greet him, I steeled myself for a moment and followed:

"Have you started the Jeep?"

"What?"

"Have you started . . . "

"yes"

". . . because you have to . . . "

"it's done, don't worry"

"when did you do it, because . . ."

"recently"

"you have to start it to keep . . ."

"it's done. quit it."

"I just want to be sure . . . "

"Oh go to hell. and welcome home."

"What?! "

"I told you it was fine,
I don't need a lecture on taking care of my car when you walk in the door!
You didn't even say hello. Just walk in . . . forget it"

And I spun on my heels and pouted away. I am an idiot.

I'd been in the kitchen. I was eating alone that night. I was making lamb chops, a salad of tomato, parsley, and roasted peppers with lemon and olive oil.

I don't know why I wrote that down. I've been picking fights like that, and he's been trying to escalate everything into a fight himself, for weeks. He was jealous of my time away doing The Last Five Years, I've been angry that he's been sleeping in on the work days so he can't get home until 8:30. And I am lonely. Embarrassed and defeated about my boring job, that I've had for seven fucking years; and realizing that no one can rescue me, even though that's all Rolf would want to do.

He got home at 8:15, and was gone by 8:45, off to play geezerball. I was probably drunk and still pouting when he got home at 10:15. And we were in bed by 11. I clung tightly to the side of the bed, my back to him - my heart pounding as it sometime does - and I took a deep sigh to catch my breath.

"What's wrong?" I heard him say through my earplugs.

"Nothing's wrong,"

"What' happened?" he says with concern.

"Nothing happened."I say with another deep sigh.

"Why are you doing that?

"It was a long, boring, lonely day; and nothing happened.
I'm glad it's over."

"I'm sorry." he says defeated.

I couldn't sleep. I grabbed a magazine and got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" he said as I opened the door.

"Out there!" I said with seething impatience and closed the door.

Schmuel, Santa Bear of Klimovich

Na na na na, na na na
I give you unlimited time.

No Matter How I Tried.

It's 10:35 Saturday morning. I've had a couple cups of coffee and several glasses of water. I've got the day planned out for hang-over recovery, just like yesterday, so I can have another great show tonight. Just like yesterday. Finally.

I took off work Thursday at 3, came home, had a nap. Then made it to the theater with as much false bravado as I could muster because I've started to hate this show. It's all "happy happy joy joy" on the outside, but really I'm thinking "I suck! I suck! I don't get to do this anymore." And then, finally, it comes together.

Thursday was not bad, with no audience other than a video camera; there were no train wrecks. Since J. had brought a friend out to tape it for us, and there are no other cast members than the two of us, we took him out for drinks afterward. I had a martini and coffee. You know, prepping for Friday; keep the alcohol down. We talked about the pianist; why am I always fighting with the pianist? There's a difficult passage in "Miracle Would Happen", where I have to sing or say over fifty words in six measures. And it's a very funny moment - that goes to shit within a hairs breadth of time because BJ and I don't get to the end of it at the same time. He's usually first! And he just keeps going on even though there is a clear chance for escape there, but no. Fuck no. "I just can't stop this hard driving rhythm right there." Mother fucker. He got to the end of the passage so much earlier than I did on Thursday, that I had time to think, "well, just because he's forging the fuck ahead, doesn't mean I have to. Why don't I just stop, take a breath, and figure out what do about it."

When I got home from our little cocktail party, Rolf was downstairs watching porn, stretched out on the part of the couch where there wasn't a pile of laundry, wearing his basketball skins. And I'm like "Hey, yay, let's do shots!" I had to take Friday off from work - the whole day, not just the half day I'd planned. I slept until 10:30. Massive amounts of water, a complete review of the score and lunch later; I was back for a nap at two until five. And then I drank a half a pot of coffee.

I told BJ when I got there, that to avoid the nightmare that "Miracle Would Happen" had become for me, if he just forged on without me, I was going to take a big breath an think for a moment when to come back in. "But that's what I love about you two, you just grab onto the bull's horns and forge ahead." "huh." I said, thinking "You fucking brilliant pianist, when the fuck to I get to start beating you bloody senseless!! It's a fucking nightmare!"

But "huh" seemed to covey that pretty well, because he said "Well, maybe I need to slow that section down." "Yeah," I said, "and if you get there first and keep going, I'm going to take enough of a break that it doesn't ruin the laugh that I just got."

So Thursday was better than Sunday - which I just felt battered and broken afterward. And J. had friends there that night, so I had to go out with them, because we are the cast. And there was no false bravado; I was upset and angry with myself and the pianist. I had miscounted some phrases, dropped weird lyrics, just struggled. And it was hard to go out and visit with the audience, because you don't want to apologize, make them tell you "No, it was good, really. We didn't even notice. . . " So you just smile, kisses and hugs. And die a little death.

False bravado hat back on my head as I arrive at the theater. Words with BJ about my vocal choice during "Nobody Needs to Know", that really made a huge improvement to the show. And what's next . . . he starts looking through the pages, and that's when I tell him that I am not foraging on in "Miracle Would Happen." And I told him again when I was putting my make-up on, that's when he said he should maybe slow down.

With the lights out backstage, I pace, my hands pressed together like an earnest child in prayer. "Focus. Focus. Focus. Don't get distracted. Don't think that went well. Don't think Has that chair always been there? Focus. Always, the next lyric. Get the next lyric right. Get it right. Right. Focus. God - forgive me - heal me- be me. For a little while. I can't do this."

And after each number, pacing, "Don't congratulate yourself for one good moment. It's the next lyric. The train wreck is coming. Lyric. Focus. Lyric."

"The train wreck hasn't happened in the usual places. It's coming. It's going to be a dropped line in a slow song. Focus! Lyric! What's the first lyric.!"

And I came off stage, with the audience left in stunned silence at the end of the show, gasping for air, trying not to sob - because I did it. I had the show I wanted, I'd believed would happen, but had given up. I had it last night. With an audience that laughed and cried, and cheered.

And I just can't believe it. I cannot put into words how fucking difficult it is to keep in mind all the time signature shifts in this fucking show. It's just ridiculous. And I got it right.

Rolf was there with Tomas, who I get to see now that Rolf has given him a job. But I can tell, I'm still on the list of those who must be punished because we kicked Bemmy out.

Puck and Memae were there with Memae's sister and PUCK'S MOM! John and Janet were there, after the long laborious apology he'd left on my cell phone when they missed the show last Saturday. (And thank God they missed it.)

And Rae was there, and Joanne, and eight of J's friends. And people in the audience who I didn't know. Who cried, and clapped, and laughed. And who were left wondering: "Wow! That was . . . just wow; but what was that?"