I have eight days to learn how to sing.
Well, to remember. I am taking my first “Mom Only” trip next weekend to be an extra in my friend Bob Morsch’s movie, Project Five.
I have been friends with Bob for about fifteen years. As I wrote about in an earlier post titled “My Not So Secret Love Affair with a Bob,” Bob is my creative soul mate. I’ve been reading copies of his script, offering critique and exchanging ideas. He mentioned to me that a big scene was scheduled to shoot next weekend, and asked if there was any chance I could make it out to be a part of it.
I replied that I didn’t think I could make it work. I assumed with two small children, there was no way I could get away for a selfish creative endeavor. But the idea lingered in my mind. It would be cool to be in a movie. Wouldn’t it be great to see old friends? It couldn’t hurt to just check the price of airfare. That would most likely put the kibosh on the whole thing.
Well, there was one cheap flight. It leaves late in the day, meaning I would see my kids right up until dinner. I’d only be away for two nights, and a total of 48 hours. Hmmm. Maybe I could just ask the hubby.
To my surprise, he said go for it. Yes ladies, I really do have the best husband in the world. “No seriously. You go on the trip and I’ll take care of the kids.” I probably shouldn’t leave town because someone is going to try to snatch him while I’m gone.
As silly as it sounds with that kind of go-ahead, I still debated it for a couple of weeks. Mommy guilt once again reared her ugly head. I worried that Kellen would cry when he knew I was not around. Or become super clingy upon my return. Or have permanent damage from me abandoning him at such a tender age. I kept checking the flights, seeing if they had gone up. Stalling.
Then I made the decision to return to school in January. My mindset changed. No longer would I be free to blog about my cupcake addiction and film silly movies starring dinosaurs. What little freetime I had would once again be taken up with time restricted, research necessitated work. So much for winning that “Mother of the Year” trophy. I needed a weekend away before my weekends became consumed with refining pointless essays and teleconferencing with strangers to discuss the finer points of business communication.
I got the final go ahead from Ben, made sure my mother-in-law was free to babysit during workhours, and purchased my ticket with dizzying speed.
Holy shit! I was going to have 48 hours without kids or a husband. Whoa. Should I start drinking at the airport or on the way to the airport? When was the last time I had alcohol poisoning?
My fingers went into a dialing flurry, first contacting my two bachelor brothers who share a house. The confirmed they could pick me up at the airport and let me crash at their place. Would I rather spend the evening at my favorite club, The Black Sheep, checking out bands, or at the new arcade/pub downtown? They suggested we should check out both. Both? Are they serious? I’m no longer a professional hipster. I’m the old lady who falls asleep while embroidering throw pillows with reruns of 30 Rock playing in the background.
Who cares? I’ve got one shot at this. One weekend to myself. That’s not going to happen again before the next appearance of Haley’s comet. I’m going to live it up, live it up, I say!
Ok, so what do I want to do? I’m essentially travelling back in time, quantum leaping back to the land of my youth, before kids, before responsibilities. What would Cool Kat do if she had a couple of hours to burn?
She might make music with some friends. Double holy shit! I used to sing! That’s right. Not well, not always on key. But I did used to sing. Maybe my brother could scrounge up some recording equipment. I could throw down some scratch tracks to record over at a later date. Scratch tracks! I even remember the lingo!
Ok, so I haven’t sang beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in about a decade, and when I sing that, I’m pretty much half assing it. Lesson here- you never know when you are going to need to use your whole ass. I should have kept my chops up, at least sang a little Stealer’s Wheel once in awhile. But I didn’t. I’m beyond rusty. Today, I tried to sing an old song I wrote and I think I actually coughed up dust.
Whatever. I’ll practice. For the next eight days, I am on a strict regimen of doting on my kids, pampering my hubby, and stretching my vocal chords. Wait. Where are my kids?
Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the best part. I might be getting upgraded from Extra Number 5 to “Girl at Jukebox.” How could I pass that up?