The Rules

It may make me sound like a Goody Two Shoes or a Polly Prissypants, but I have to admit that I am one who follows the rules. If a sign says Keep off the grass, I do so. I am the one who sits at a red light and obeys the sign that reads No right turn on red, even though the cars behind me honk impatiently. I also throw away my trash, slow down in school zones, and obediently pick up George’s poop.

But I have learned, in dealing with the public during my many jobs, that the majority of the population could care less about rules because they think the rules apply to everyone else.

I am thinking about rules today because this weekend my job was to corral and coordinate 450 children, 100 volunteer parents, and hundreds of audience members through our annual Spring Concert performances at Nevada Ballet. So I ask you to please stop for a minute and think about what I just said. 450 children. 100 volunteer parents. Probably 1500+ audience members. See why rules are important? And yet so many of the people I encountered this weekend still think rules don’t apply to them.

Over the past three months we probably told the parents 20 times that they would pick up their children after the show in the lobby. But still we had parents who showed up at the backstage door and angrily demanded that their child be allowed to leave.

There was an extra side door backstage that we blocked off with curtains and signs saying Do Not Open Door, for security reasons. Still, the volunteer moms would open this door and let people in during the show. They thought surely it was okay – it was just their husbands after all.

And after the performances, classes were brought to the lobby one at a time, and ushers made sure children were picked up by a parent and didn’t run blindly into the crowd to be lost forever. Still, we had parents who angrily told me that we were ridiculous and that they shouldn’t have to wait. So I guess they thought we should just allow all 500+ audience members backstage to wander around and find their kids?

During the performances, even after repeated requests for audience members not to text during the show and shine light on the people sitting behind them, they usually only put their phones away after an usher finally told them they would be escorted from the theater.

Even the veteran volunteer mothers who had done this job for years caused problems, thinking they could take their classes around the building to meet parents, instead of going up the side of the theater and following the path we had created, from checkpoint to checkpoint. They got angry, not understanding that anyone who didn’t follow the rules made our system fall apart. We needed to know the location of each class at all times. Just because they had done it before didn’t give them special privileges.

These rule-breaking people have shown up in my other jobs, too, when I was performing for a living. At the Venetian, there were the people who would sit and smoke right next to the huge NO SMOKING signs. And at every show in town there are people who take flash photos after hearing the No Flash Photography speech. They think they will just sneak in one photo, and then they end up blinding the performers on stage. Why can’t they just realize there are reasons for the rules?

To me, the best example of this kind of thinking happened when I danced at the Stratosphere and had to pose in costume with the audience after every show. After too many photos in which drunk men inappropriately copped a feel or tourists draped their sweaty armpits on our shoulders, we finally put ropes in front of us so that people would stand in front for the photo and not be allowed to stand next to us. But many people would JUMP OVER the ropes and touch us anyway! Who did they think those ropes were for - only the crazy people? Many of the people who jumped over were good-natured, nice people who innocently wanted a picture with the pretty girls. Yes, they may have been nice, but the ropes were for everyone! People just tend to think it’s okay for them to break the rules. After all, it’s just them, right?

Okay, after three 12+ hour work days in a row in which we instilled rules for the overall purpose of giving children a safe, rewarding performance experience, I needed to vent. So thank you very much. Now I’m going to go throw my Starbucks cup in the trash can, yield to oncoming traffic, and drive a perfect 35 miles an hour all the way home.

Trust your car to the man who wears the star...

Whenever my husband gets in my car, he tells me it gives him “the skeeves.” He is a neat freak, so the fact that my car is not up to par really gets to him. But I don’t really care. I mean, I live in my car. And by “live” I don’t mean that I spend a lot of time in my car; I mean that life goes on there. I eat in my car, laugh in my car, and sometimes even cry in my car. In the backseat are books in case I need to kill time somewhere, canvas grocery bags because I try to be green, an umbrella (because I’m unrealistically optimistc about the possibility of rain), and a dictionary so I can look up words from KNPR. There are smudges on the passenger window from George’s nose as he watches the world go by on the way to the park. My car door has scratches on it from a very aggressive llama at a wild animal park. There is a stain on the backseat from a potted plant I bought that spilled when I took a sharp turn. To me, these are part of life – nothing to worry about.

And while the interior may be unkempt, the machinery of my car is doing just fine, thank you. It goes in for perfectly timed oil changes and regular checkups, due to one reason: years ago my Grandpa owned a Texaco service station.

When I was a kid, Grandpa and his brother still owned the service station on the West side of town in Paoli, Indiana. It was a special place where the local men went to socialize. I was allowed to sit in the brown leather chair in between the front window and the ice cream freezer. If I was lucky Grandpa would give me an ice cream sandwich or I would be there when the last cigar was sold so I could take home the cigar box and put special things in it.

My Uncle John worked at the station in the summer, long and lean in his green shirt with the Texaco patch. I could see him helping customers at the pump, but I was not allowed to go into the service area where the cars were hoisted high. That was a serious area – no kids allowed.

At my Grandpa’s funeral two years ago, a man walked up to Grandma and introduced himself. “Your husband saved my life,” he told her. Years before, he had been out of money and desperate and was walking a small country road looking for work when Grandpa pulled alongside him in his pickup truck and offered him a ride. When Grandpa found out he was looking for a job, he offered him one at the station. “I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t saved me that day,” the man said to Grandma. He ended up working at the station for over 15 years.

Grandpa and I didn’t have a lot in common when I got older, but we could always talk about my car. “How many miles does it have on it?” he’d ask when I drove home from college. Later when I flew in from Vegas to visit, he’d always ask the make, model, and color of my rental. Over the years he gave a lot of car advice from his reclining chair by the front window in the living room.

Everyone in my family knows to follow certain “automobile rules.” Don’t slam the car doors. Don’t drive barefoot. Always pull up to the farthest pump at the gas station. Put a concrete block in the back to keep you from sliding on icy roads. Don’t speed. Follow the rules. We were taught to respect our cars and fellow motorists.

As I write this, I wonder why I don’t respect my car enough to keep the interior clean. But I just figured out why. One summer when Mom’s car’s front corner was dented by another driver, Grandpa fixed it and then painted the corner of the yellow car a bright brick red. Mom was mortified. But I can see Grandpa’s reasoning. It was a good car that was impeccable in its machinery and ran well. What it looked like didn’t matter.

So the next time you’re in my car, please know that it will get us where we need to go. Don’t mind my empty drink cup or the paw prints on the dashboard. I take care of my car in the way that matters. I LIVE in my car!