parting is such sweet sorrow (but don't put it in writing, moron)

So we closed the show last night, struck the set, had a nice little cast & crew party and bid a tearful fare-thee-well to one another.

The two boys who played my sons in this show (reprising the same roles we all played in a blockbuster two years ago and won regional theatre awards for but who's bragging?) headed back to college, one to Tallahassee and the other to Orlando to jump into summer jobs, summer classes and internships. I say "boys" but they are 23 and 21 now and one of them actually grabbed my ass several times in the course of the last two months which was a little unsettling but what the hell? What 40-something broad doesn't mind a 20-something cutie grabbing her ass backstage once in a while? Huh? I love them both and it was hard to say goodbye. But anyway.

One sweet little tradition in the theatre is the practice of gift or card-giving. Sometimes the gifts are gags sometimes not, but there is, at the very least, an exchange -- on opening night or closing night -- of some sort of sentimentalism that may make some gag but there it is.

Yesterday's gift/card exchange was especially memorable. I snapped lots of pix throughout the six-week rehearsal period and our month-long run and put together little albums for all five of my cast mates. The boys wrote me sweet, lovely letters and presented me with trinkets to remember them by. Flowers were exchanged, cookies were exchanged, etc.

The guy who played my estranged husband (let's call him "Brad") wrote us all letters. Like his character, Brad is likewise estranged from the world. He is a bitter divorcee and kind of a weird dude, but a dead-on actor who met me line-for-line in every scene we had together. He was a joy to work opposite from onstage. But backstage, he and the woman who played my sister (let's call her "Ginger"), another bitter divorcee who recently became engaged to a sweet man she met at church were at each other's throats nonstop. She became a sniping shrew as the weeks wore on and he became a bombastic pompous ass. The one-upping of insults was ridiculous and especially so because they are both professed "Christians" and don't drink or swear or do any of that vile stuff. At first the rest of us kind of found it amusing but after a while it became exhausting. Like a real family.

So anyway, Brad's letters to his cast mates created a stir with the boys because they amounted to cursory sentimentality followed by lists of acting tips which really affronted both of them. Mine was pedestrian, garden variety sentimentality. But the one he wrote to Ginger was the best. The. Best.

Because she and he had been fighting so much, she feigned disinterest in what Brad may have had to say and pitched the envelope that read "Ginger" into her tote bag. When the stage manager stopped by she noticed it peeking out of Ginger's bag and asked,

"So, what did Brad have to say to you, Ginger?" To which Ginger replied,

"Oh, who cares? Throw it away. Or read it yourself, I don't give a rat's patootie."

"Really, you want me to read it?" Asked the stage manager.

"Sure--read it out loud to us," Ginger said, sashaying across the dressing room and closing the door for privacy. So as I finished my hair and adjusted the lines on the back of my stockings, our stage manager (my 13-year-old daughter) opened the envelope.

My first hint that maybe this might not be a good idea was when Ginger leapt to her feet and said, "Be careful! Don't tear the paper!" As Schmoopie opened the sealed flap and read...

"Dear Ginger, I may never again know the love of a woman but no matter what lies ahead for me, I will always treasure the memory of our last night together. I cannot forget the vision of your naked body bathed in blue light, the curves of the mounds and the musky scent of your womanliness, the depth of our hunger and passion, the spiritual feeling of our lovemaking, deeper and deeper..."

We three were so stunned we were frozen, unable to move. My sweet little daughter looked up from the paper, her eyes wide. "He saw you NAKED?????!!!!!!????" she asked.

After a long moment of silence (and all that ricocheted through our heads in that moment) Ginger jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair she had just vacated which collapsed to the floor with such alarming clattering as metal chairs are want to do, that the boys rushed down the hallway and knocked on our door to make sure we were alright.

Ginger ripped the paper from Schmoopie's hand and loudly and dramatically (as drama queens do so well) proclaimed Brad's insanity. But we know better. Brad and Ginger totally did the nasty.

Ew.