I’m having trouble with love.  Sort-of.  Not between Kyle and I.  If you take into consideration the fact that we’ve lived in a studio apartment for a month now without slitting each other’s throats, we’re doing wonderfully.  No, I’m having trouble with how much trouble other people are having with our love.

It’s something we’ve had to deal with before.  Upon first examination, Kyle and I are an…unorthodox match.  I’m tall for a woman, and slender, (well, I used to be…shut up!) while Kyle is built like a fire hydrant.  He doesn’t seem to notice the holes in his t-shirts or the tattering hems of his pants, and I have trouble going to the grocery store without a put-together outfit, complete with accessories.  And I love to go to clubs with day-glo drinks and dance, while Kyle would prefer to go to a dive bar, drink beer and play Big Buck Hunter.

Because of our mis-matched appearance, I’m constantly being asked why I’m with him.   Shit, I just joined a website that Kyle administrates and my very presence inspired a 30-post thread on whether I was real or a character Kyle invented.  The question is always asked as a joke, but there’s also always a glimmer in the questioner’s eye that tells me that they’re actually pretty curious about the answer.

It’s not the questions that are bothering me, however.  They’re harmless, annoying at most, and fabulous on my ego.  But since we’ve been here in Wichita, people have been much more…aggressive, shall we say, in their responses to us.  (Keep in mind that Kyle and I aren’t incredibly touchy-feely; we’re not afraid of a little pda, but we don’t do that walk-with-your-hand-in-his-butt-pocket thing.  We don’t act any differently around, say, my grandmother than we do when we’re at the bar with friends.)  If there is the slightest amount of affection between the two of us, there will be vocal, (and snide,) reactions.  There will be rolled eyes, joined with a sour face.  There will be comparisons of us to a train wreck to the rest of the table.  There will be complaints of being “stuck” next to us at a party.  Shit, if we even pretend to like each other we’ll get nasty looks.  We’ve even had people walk away in the middle of a conversation because they didn’t want to hear us talk about our relationship.

Tell a story about how we tried to strangle each other for the last breakfast bar, however, and they will listen, enraptured.  Get Kyle’s attention by calling, “Hey, asshole!” and they’ll laugh.  But tell him I love him and give him a quick kiss and it’s, “Christ, do I really have to listen to that?”  I’ve never had such adverse and vocal reactions to our relationship before, especially from people who are at the very least, colleagues, and I’m a little baffled by it.

And frankly, it’s starting to piss me off.  Sure, most of these people knew Kyle as an engaged bachelor, so seeing him with a wife might be kind-of weird.    And to be fair, 90% of the people we work with are completely single, and maybe a little bitter.  Okay, maybe very bitter.  The theatre industry is not conducive to the married couple, what with the scarcity of jobs and the gypsy lifestyle, so it is teeming with the single and bitter.  It makes me wonder if we would be getting these violent reactions if we worked for the same company in a different industry.  But whatever their reason, no one has the right to try and make us feel guilty for having found love.

So what are we supposed to do?  Are we supposed to try not to touch each other except within the confines of our home?  Pretend that we don’t like each other?  Feign misery so that our single friends can look at the unhappy married couple and feel better about being single?  These ideas seem ridiculous and insulting, not to mention fairly unhealthy for our relationship.  Personally I would like to be able to call people out for their selfish and childish behavior, and stand up for our right to express our happiness.  But since we like these people, for reasons unknown, we’ll probably just continue to laugh it off, and hope that they’ll eventually stop seeing the weirdness or the jealousy, and start seeing two people who make each other very, very happy.

There are questions in life that make me cringe.  “When are you two having kids? is one of them.”  “How much time do you need to get ready?” is another.  And I always hate, “So, where are you from?” because right now I don’t really know how to answer it.

But one question that I dread probably more than others* is, “So, what do you do for a living?”  I hate it because when I tell people that I’m a Theatrical Electrician, most have no earthly idea what that means.  Most people tell me their occupation and I can form a little tableau in my mind depicting how they spend their day.  It may not be complete or accurate, but it gives me an idea of how they fit into society.  Even if I don’t really know what they do, I can at least get a feel for what it is that they’re good at and what kind of industry they work in.

But say Theatrical Electrician and I’m mostly met with blank stares.  Some people think I install electrical outlets in theaters.  My mom thinks I run the spotlight.  And from reading my recent blog postings, I’m pretty sure you all think that the job is just a cover and that I actually just drink beer and watch sports all day.

So my goal tonight is to help you, the reader, understand what it is that I do.  I think it’s important because as the career paths that Kyle and I have chosen are unconventional, so will be our lives, and without understanding what drives us down those paths the understanding of our choices along the way will be incomplete.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you don’t understand my job, my life isn’t going to make any sense.

Ready?

Imagine you’re having a party this weekend.  A real blowout.  But you realize that like in my first apartment, there are no overhead lights in your living room, and this time the glow from tv isn’t going to cut it this time.  So you go out and buy 4 really nice floor lamps, one for each corner of the room, and a couple of fun party light bulbs from Spenser’s.  It’s going to look so badass.

So you get home, and you set up your lamps, and you start plugging them in.  The one in the near corner is fine, because there’s an outlet right next to it, but the cord for the one in the next corner won’t reach.  So you have to get an extension cord, plug your lamp into it, run it around the edge of the carpet, (so no one will trip on it,) and plug it into the wall.  No problem.

But you still have two more lamps to plug in and you’ve just realized that there’s no more outlets in that room.  (It’s an old house, okay, give me a break.)  But you remember that there’s still one outlet open in the kitchen next to the microwave.  So you get a longer extension cord, plug your lamp into it, and run it around the edge of the room, down the hallway, around the edge of the kitchen, up the side of the counter, and plug it into the wall next to the microwave.  Problem solved.

Still one lamp to go, and you’re out of outlets.  Not to mention that you haven’t even plugged in your stereo, your chocolate fountain, or the pump for your ice sculpture/Bacardi fountain.  (It’s a big party.)  Then you remember that the neighbors are away for the weekend.  So you sneak through your neighbor’s kitchen window, plug a really long extension cord into their outlet, and run it the length of their kitchen, out the window, across the ally, in your guest bedroom window, around the edge of the room, down the hallway, and into the living room, where you plug an outlet strip into that.  You plug an extention cord into the outlet strip, and run it the rest of the way around the room to the lamp.  And that’s just to get everything to turn on.

Now imagine that instead of 4 lamps, there’s 400.  Instead of a couple 25′  extension cords, there’s thousands of feet of cable spidering all over the building.  And instead of the usual 60 watt, we’re dealing with a 575 watt bulb.  Oh, and in the meantime your room mate walks in and tells you that she likes the lamps, but could you hang one of them from the ceiling, point one at the piano (and only the piano), and put a third in the very center of the room (but there can’t be any cables sticking out because someone might trip on them.)  And can the 4th one be made to look like it’s on fire?

Of course, it’s never as simple as that.  Each light has to be plugged into a pre-determined outlet, and receives its own color of gel.  While the bulk of the lights are hung on pipes over the stage, designers always want as many lights in as many positions as possible, and often times these positions have to be built and secured before we can hang lights on them.  And if course, if we hang 100 lights only 90 of them will actually turn on the first time.

For an idea of the sheer mass of production, check out this video.  (And keep in mind that all that is accomplished in 8 hours.  And done again, in reverse, after the concert.)

So that’s how I spend my days.  Plugging shit in, making it turn on.  It’s work I love, but unfortunately the gigs tend to be short, and hard to come by, even without this crappy economy.  Which explains why Kyle and I are in a constant state of job hunting, and we’re averaging a move once every 3 and 9 months.  The idea of working for the same company for 20 years-shit, for 5 years-isn’t even entertained.  Really, the fact that Kyle and I are able to work for the same company this summer is nothing short of a miracle.

And if we’re both able to find jobs this fall in the same city…well shit, there just might be a chorus of angels doing a jig and throwing their hats in the air.

*I would might to make one thing clear.  There is one question that I despise more than the occupation job: it’s the, “So how’s the job hunt going?”  But I don’t think I need to explain why that question blows.

Kyle and I got a precious, precious day off today.  We went to the zoo, because inside of my belching, cursing exterior is a 5-year old who enjoys making up songs about penguins and chasing ducks.  So we found our way to the Seneca County Zoo, the only zoo to include corn in their feature plants.  Also on display was a life-sized fiber-glass mauled zebra carcass, which I thought added a certain amount of class to the place.

I think I appreciated the exposed back bone the most.

But my favorite exhibits weren’t the overly-graphic dead animals, or even the gorilla who banged on the glass in front of a small boy and then laughed when the kid screamed.  (I gave him a thumbs up.  The gorilla, not the kid.)

No, my favorite creatures to watch were the zoo asshats; the ones who paid $11 a person with the apparent purpose of annoying the shit out of me.  See, here’s the thing.  I love the zoo.  I love watching the animals and I enjoy spending time in the sunshine with my husband.  But I despise everyone else who goes to the zoo.  To this day, my favorite zoo trip was the one Kyle and I took in March, and were possibly the only people there.

Today there were a wide variety of fascinating creatures out and about, all making me want to give them a shove next to the panther pen.  Here are some of my favorites:

The North American Screaming Mom: The NASM can be most easily be identified by her double-wide SUV stroller that contains only 1 kid and she insists on trying to navigate through the tightest of spaces, usually in the vicinity of my shins.  She often insists on shoving her giant-ass stroller to the front and parking it right against the glass so that her precious little Xavier can see the kitty-cat.  As if her 15-month old really gives a shit about anything but gnawing on its shoes.  (Also, a lion is not a “kitty-cat”.  My 8 pound tortie is a “kitty-cat”.  That animal is a fucking lion.)

The One-Armed iMom:  The OAiM is named so for the appearance of only one arm, since the other is attached to its iPhone-shaped ear.  This creature shares many characteristics with the NASM, including the gigantuin stroller and the inability to steer it without smashing into me, but the main difference lies in attentiveness; while the NASM will watch her offspring without blinking lest someone sneeze on it, the OAiM will often let her children run amok, tearing herself away from her important conversation only once her young try to climb into the meerkat exhibit.

The Large-Mouthed Informer: Usually a mature male with a female and young, this creature can be identified by its inclination to share any and all knowledge pertinate to the exhibit.  Information is usually incorrect, and when asked to cite a reference he will usually say something vague like, “I saw something on Discovery about it.”  My favorite specimen was the man who stood in front of the orangutan exhibit (next to the sign reading “Orangutans”, no less,) and announced “Look kids, gorillas!” before launching into a speech about how these particular “gorillas” were born in Africa.  (Which is also wrong.)

The Shutter Finger: This creature is most easily identified by their camera, which is usually a recent aquisision either bought for the occasion or received as a gift.  Mild mannered varieties of the Shutter Finger will merely stand in front of the exhibit and snap pictures, while the more aggressive creature may shove its way to the front and insist that people get out of the shot.  Other common behaviors include loud discussion of its camera’s features and tapping on the glass in an attempt to coax the subject into a more photogenic position.  The more extreme version of the Shutter Finger may record video, and some have even been seen narrating their own movie.  Whether or not these creatures are aware of the fact that no one will ever give a monkey’s shit about any of these photos or films is still a mystery.

Children:  All of them.  They scream, they shove in front of me, they spill orange soda down the back of my leg, and starting about 2:00, they cry.  Everything that annoys me, they do without even realizing it.  Honestly, they should have their own exhibit, possibly in the ape house.  Seeing as they also eat bugs and are facinated by their own poo, they would fit right in.