Why We All Need More Christopher Durang In Our Lives
I hear my cue and enter to greet my moody teenager daughter, who, for some entirely mysterious reason, recently slashed her thighs open with a razor blade.
“Hello, dear, I'm back. Did you miss me? Say yes. (Pause.) Of course you missed me. A daughter always misses her mother.”
On the word, “mother,” I pull open my trench coat to reveal a frilly blue evening dress, complete with ample cleavage: decidedly un-mother-like and totally inappropriate attire for running errands and soothing a suicidal child on a chilly Tuesday morning. The audience bursts into laughter at the sight of it.
That was a long time ago, but I can still hear the laughter, see the bright cobalt blue of the dress, still taste the “banana bread” that I invent later in the play. (Yes, invent, thank you. I shove a banana through a loaf of bread. And it’s delicious.)