I pray for gin every day

See, last time, I meant the lovely and witty Gin Marie.

This time, I mean Bombay Sapphire.

Straight from the freezer with the cap spun off and a straw. Maybe a lime in the next room or something. I'm not picky.

I have just informed a couple of key people that the entity known as "North" no longer exists. She has been replaced with BUSYGIRL (insert zoomy music here). North used to read a lot, converse wittily with friends and family, be entertained by the lunatics at work, sleep eight hours a night, and eat three regular meals each and every day. Sometimes she did fun things, like watch tv or go out to a restaurant or a movie. She'd spend time in the company of . . . Some Guy? That Guy? Wait, got it--This Guy.

BUSYGIRL(zzzzzzoooooomshwoomfwoom) does none of these things. BUSYGIRL gets up in the morning, convinces herself that no, really, she needs a shower more than another ten minutes in bed. She wonders if she has time to shave her legs and almost always decides that she doesn't, and then has to calculate the value of breakfast vs. looking like a woodland creature. She gets dressed for work and packs up her bag.

Money for parking? Check. Script? Check. Rehearsal clothes? Check. Water bottle? Check. Shoes? Check. Other shoes? Check. Other other shoes? Check. Jacket in case it cools off? Check. Brush and hair tie? Check. Stage makeup? Check. Day planner? Check. Purse? Check. Keys? . . . . keys? KeyskeyskeyskeysCRAPkeyskeyskeys--check!  Out the door!

Back in the door. Grab a bagel. Throw together some random assortment of food for lunch: hunk of cheese, crust of bread, handful of grapes, baggie of Cooper cookies, yogurt. Eat an icecream sandwich for breakfast, tell Right of Center to stow it. And have a good day. Out the door!

Back in the door. Get the bag with the script, the water, the three pairs of shoes, the dayplanner. Out the door!

Then it's traffic. Then it's work.

Crazy people, angry people, boring people. Files fourteen inches deep strangling my ankles. Check the email at lunchtime, wonder who this "mom" person is and why she keeps spamming my inbox. Wonder if I'm ever going to see the top of my desk again and why the concept of "organization" seems to escape everyone but me. Wonder what the hell that pile is. I mean, this pile is for encyclicals, and this pile is for the PJPII Cultural Center, and the one over there is for Black and White pictures of Cardinals in regalia, and the one next to that is coats of arms--but this? Wait, no time to decide if it's CSA press releases or letters from closed parishes!

Time to go, BUSYGIRL (zzzzzzooooomshwooomfwoom)! Because it's time for rehearsal! Gotta stretch! Gotta dance! A lot! Then some more! Then run lines! Then change the blocking again! Then run the show! We're not gonna stop until we're done! Unless we decide to stop! Five times! To change the blocking! That we just changed an hour ago! Back to what it was two days ago! It's nine-thirty, and just when we all think we can get out of here on time for once---NO! We run that scene again! The long one! With the blocking changes! Then notes! For half an hour!

Then it's home again, and traffic again, and eleven o'clock at night and let's try not to autopilot back to the old house, mmmmkay? I get home and everyone's already in bed, but I'm some weird combination of hyper and exhausted and I just can't. Stop. Talking. I'm also ravenously hungry, but at this point I can either eat or shower and I stink like, well, like it was ninety degrees and muggy all day and I just spent three hours dancing my ass off in a closed and stuffy theater where people have spent the day painting the set with protein dye. Because it was. And I did. And if I don't make this decision soon, it's going to be too late for either. . . .

(zzzzzzzooooooomshwoooomfwooooom!)

 
Yeah, that's pretty much my life lately. The sick part? I'm actually having a lot of fun. I wouldn't trade the whole exhausting rehearsal experience for the free time it could give me. I miss This Guy, and I miss talking to these people in my house who look kinda like me, but I am having so much fun. I can't wait until this thing opens, because it's going to be hilarious. I'm stomach-churningly nervous about the whole thing, but I can also feel it coming together.

We broke through some kind of barrier this week, it feels like. Maybe it's the scene-polishing work we've been doing offstage. It's a palpable thing, feeling this show come together, a tingle right over the surface of your skin as it all starts to work. Lines aren't words we have to memorize in a certain order anymore, they are the reactions and feelings of our characters. I'm talking about "motivation" with a straight face and I'm finding it and showing it and feeling it.

Falstaff bailed on our trip to Stratford last minute, and I really can't blame him. He doesn't have the money, and it's nice to see him making the responsible choice. He gave me some pretentious twaddle about how he thinks it's important "for his craft" to go. Right of Center and I laughed at that, but he kind of does have a point. I know that this weekend I'm going to be a little more aware of the acting than I have been before. I'm going to be watching the choices the actors make, and watching how they move and speak. Maybe I'll learn something.

The Stratford trip is my favorite part of the summer, in fact, one of my favorite parts of the year. Due to scheduling conflict, This Guy and I went on our own last year. It was nice to be there just with him, but at times it felt like something was missing. We've been doing this for six years, now, and every other time we had gone with a group of friends. That was part of it, too, the staying up late drinking too much wine and playing euchre; the group silliness in the restaurant; the merry-go-round of fruits we don't like at breakfast. This year it's an even bigger group, and some people that haven't gone before. Thor and Freya will be there, and Doc and Smokey, Fertility Goddess and Compugeek, The Fed and Mr. Fed, and This Guy and I. I can't wait.