The Shearing of the Pussy

 It’s alright, Suprise! You’re just getting a little trim!

It’s alright, Suprise- if no one would hurt you, it’s him.

You’re okay, Suprise! Your eyes are like marbles and broccoli!

You’re okay, Suprise!

…..beat

…..beat

…..beat

…..beat (continuous beats which waaaay outlast what was being set up as the rhythm of the piece, then)

Nothing rhymes with broccoli.

So, good song. And I’ll bet something DOES rhyme with broccoli, but I’m not going to permit myself to look it up yet because I don’t want to be crashingly disappointed. If you know what it is/they are, please direct message me. I may give you a footnote but more importantly you will know that I know that you knew that. 

Today was the day to Shear the Pussy.

I awake. I snurfle, pull out my wedgie, roll over, all the usual stuff. My eyes slit open. I spy the wee shaft of light beaming in from under the blinds. The tears start. Oh God. It’s today. Today is the day we Shear the Pussy. 

A bit of backstory- I bottle raise abandoned infant feral kittens and as such a martyr have been required to bathe, feed, genital massage, pluck them screaming from behind the refrigerator, and yes, occasionally bleed in service to my cause. 

I OF COURSE just happened to form a particular attachment to one of the myriad kittens I have raised. The one who speaks to no one and randomly changed color from black to silver for three weeks at a stretch there in 2012. His name is Suprise- spelled that way 1. Because- be honest with yourself- that’s how you pronounce it, and 2. When he was 10 days old, blind and alone with his siblings, I walked in on his sister sucking maniacally at his genitals thinking they were a teat. And the look on his little post-embryonic face was, in fact, surprised. I tell that story at cabarets all the time. It goes over big. Well for those of you who enjoy that story and thought, I’d like to meet that cat, consider yourself cordially invited to the next shearing of the pussy. Don’t worry. You have until next spring to prepare. 

I’ve trigressed.

The Shearing of the Pussy. 

My mechanical engineer/can do/make/fix anything/smartest, kindest and funniest man I know father is in charge of setting up the shearing station on the back porch. Which means clearing chairs, baby swings, multiple wrought iron colorful birds I’ve purchased him from Marshall’s over the years, and a Grumpy the Dwarf driver cover he found on the golf course. That sounds like a pain in the ass right? Sure. WRONG. Because MY job, as adoptive mother is to fetch the kitty out of the house. And kitty has STARTED TO SUSPECT. I do a few laps around the house. Innocuous. I get a coffee. I start a load of laundry. I fiddle with the “Lady & the Tramp” puzzle currently hogging up the dining room table. All without sparing him a glance. When I’m fairly sure he feels this to be just another day, I approach. He is immediately at center behind the family room couch. OUT COME THE GOLF CLUBS. Not to strike him with, though I can’t speak for what my mother does when I’m not home and he nips her ankles, but rather to prod him out from behind the couch. He is so prodded. And ripples past my mother into the kitchen. I swing around through the hall to catch him in the living room. We both spend a little time underneath the piano which I won’t go into, but then he swivels away down the hall to the bedrooms. My mother throws in the towel- nay- golf club, but I haven’t given up. I stride slowly but in what I hope is an authoritative manner down the hall. He’s sitting there. A miserable hairball laden wad of what I think is still my cat. Oddly, he doesn’t move. I pick him up. I am now trembling with terror. For why is he letting me do this? Oh well. I explain to my mother that I know exactly what I’m doing and journey out onto the back porch to the Shearing Station. 

The Shearing Station: We have snatched the toddler sized table and chairs out to the back porch. Protected them with plastic. Because heaven forbid the cat scratch the table which my niece colors and drools all over every day. I guess some people like my niece more than the cat. Other items include - 3 different shearers- two for shearing human heads aka my dad’s, and one ordered offline as it was advertised to the THE ONE THEY USE AT PETSMART. 

My father and I glove up.

I hoist- gently hoist- Suprise into the child’s bathing pool we have stationed atop my niece’s toddler table. He launches immediately into the hissing and batting and scratching and flailing and biting. But once he realizes the gloves render this futile, he continues. With greater rigor. 

My first job is to take a pair of scissors and cut off all the matted hair wads we can find as close the skin as possible without nicking him, of course. This way the shavers will glide through the remaining hair much more smoothly. I get through about three hair blobs before Suprise is doing his level best to leap from the table - which I cannot allow as I am his mother and his doing such with me holding onto him only by the collar would result in….something bad. 

Dad and I soon determine that the fancy dancy shearers he purchased online are broken as I am making no progress at all. So we swap. I hold the cat and sing to him- see above- as Dad breaks out the human shears. Some progress. Not a lot. We take a break. I hold Suprise in my lap and let him catch a glimpse of inside the house- which may, upon reflection, have been more cruel than kind- while Dad goes off to the garage to oil the fancy shears. He returns. They work like a dream. No one has ever been angrier than Suprise- who demonstrates this by taking a large poop on the crotch of my IDAHO SWEATPANTS. But no one has ever been more satisfied that Dad and I as the fancy shears dive through hairballs and smooth out his undercarriage like never before. And I’m pretty sure he still has all his nipples. Satisfaction. 

We vacuum the cat off with a wet/dry vac- which is how I can guarantee I won’t have to deal with him for at least a week. We vacuum ourselves off. I take our poop-ridden, hair-laden clothes in to wash. Dad goes to Sam’s Club to buy a rocking chair and get a piece of pizza. 

Now I’m following the box jellyfish previously known as Suprise around the house trying to snatch a photo of him. But for at least the next 20 minutes at which point he will forget all about this- he is PISSED and will not sit for photos. If I snag him- I’ll show you.

A young woman rushes into a clearing. She is lost. She is alone. She is searching wistfully for...nothing. But there's plenty of wist. She slowly becomes aware of a pre-recorded chorus of people droning on about the colors of the landscape. Yawn. This, coupled with her failed search for nothing, proves sufficient motivation for her to make an immediate exit downstage right of the Forest of Trees With Only Fronts.
Five meters to the left, a coterie of young men wearing inflatable metal vests wheel in a discarded Cirque de Soleil papier mache Percheron clad in a green velveteen skirt atop of which is perched the wee-est prince in all the land. The prince endeavors to prove his princeliness by tossing a whopping 6 ft. of rope off stage and hauling the giant hand puppet from Virginia Rep's 2005 Barksdale production of "Into the Woods" out of the wings. He solidifies this stalwart image by slaying a puff of smoke with his grossly oversized slingshot. This prince is pretty baller for one so small, you think. Then you realize- Oh! He's not small! It's just that his horse and slingshot are bespoke. For either LeBron James or the Hulk.
You are distracted from this quandary by the scooting onstage of a styrofoam stone wall, a well, and 1/6 of a cottage. There's some discussion of the local caste system which is rightfully upstaged by the aforementioned coterie of young men doing yoga behind the well while gripping their swords on both ends. This is fascinating because were these swords not props, this yoga would undoubtedly result in hand amputations and visits to the nearest emergency room. But I digress. These are merely the musings of a step-sister  lounging in the wings because she got ready too early and has nothing to do other than pester Durron before his entrance.
Durron enters. Then a boy I've known for 10 years since he played a child in "Fiddler on the Roof" and could now be aged anywhere from 11 to 54 enters carrying a stack of presents. That's my cue. I adjust my tit ruffle and make sure I'm still capable of snapping a fan. I enter. I sneer at Durron. I leave. I will not have anything else to do in this play for a solid fifteen minutes and therefore cannot report on any key plot developments.
Cinderella sings a song about sitting on a chair while sitting on a stool.
Then it turns out the prince is giving a ball. Great. Now we have to wheel on numerous rickety carts festooned with re-purposed portraits of Scott Wichmann and do an exhausting dance number replete with enthusiasm. On top of which we must pretend extreme interest in invitations which only look important because someone requisitioned the stash of VA Rep Opening Night Newberry Award/Caldecott Medal stickers to use as seals.
A man tears off all my clothes in the dark. He replaces them with orange hip blimps. To be fair, he also places ostrich feathers in my hair, so it's not a total loss. I scurry behind the set, doing my level best not to snag my hip blimps on anything important.  Like the enchanted carriage. Or Mitchell.
Cinderella and I perform corset acting. We are joined by Susan and Havy as we gaze into an imaginary mirror and pretend to eat and powder each other's faces. The audience kindly goes along with us through this shenaniganery and is fully invested as our house flies into the rafters and we are "off to the ball."
But hold your pre-lit Lowe's holiday lawn ponies- before we can arrive at the ball, there's a lot of shit that has to go down. Katrinah kicks things off by tossing her costume down a well and un-sheathing her wand- a delicate and dainty instrument only intact thanks to Bruce Rennie and several drills, industrial strength staples, and glue guns. Through the power of magic, fog, and 48+ hours of tech rehearsal, Mitchell and Danny are transformed from stuffed animals into French Revolutionists. They perform a silent high five and then take ahold of Cinderella's tote bag bodice straps and wrest away her peasant garb to reveal the most elegant christening gown Richmond, VA has ever seen. Cinderella ascends into her mobile pumpkin jail and is whisked away offstage. Which is unfortunate as the ball takes place onstage.
Nothing of import really happens at the ball save the following:
1. The dance ensemble of SPARC's "Newsies" performs.
2. Cinderella meets and has a brief chat with the Prince just in time to start singing as accompaniment to the pas de deux being danced around and betwixt them by two ball guests who don't know how to read a room and insist on performing their number right in the middle of the meet cute.
3. I eat cake made of spackle.
The ball is then over. Everyone leaves in a rush and I shout and complain for a few minutes. I am slightly soothed by hurling my left high heel into the wings as hard as I can and trying to hit someone who is either The Prince's Royal Advisor or The Man Who Has The Best Voice I've Ever Heard. But I can't be sure which because I can't see. Safety first.
What follows is a short ballet. Set in the woods. The climax of which is a fox climbing a tree with its spine.
Cinderella is exhausted after this ballet and sinks to the ground. She sings (somewhat rudely) a love song about an extremely tall blue-eyed man. Who is not in this play.
The house falls back out of the ceiling. Susan, Havy, and I start drinking.
Several bouts of acting later, the prince decides to throw a banquet.
A summary of all high points between here and the end:
1. The fairy godmother is revealed to be a squatter.
2. Durron points out that from the wings, all the fog surrounding Cinderella during her transformation makes it look like the fairy godmother has potentially lit her on fire.
3. The pope.
So I suppose the moral of this tale is that a young girl who starts out lost and alone searching in the proverbial woods for meaning and purpose can, with the help of a homeless invisible glamour queen and a couple of stuffed animals, learn that anything is possible if you have enough magnets sewn into your dress.

Forever Fun

Forever White.
As I scan the audience, I see the audience matches the title. Transparent perms, slacks, frowning old Caucasian men. But wait- there's hope- across the house from me are two gorgeous Latina girls who I'd like to scalp for wigs.
Lights up and then down. We give a round of applause to Travis and the bassist who haven't done anything yet to prove they deserve it.
Eric Williams has apparently won the annual VA Rep lottery of Who Gets To Do Voiceovers At The Tavern and demonstrates his skills by reading an obituary over the PA system. What a refreshing start.
Four boys walk in - LATE - holding fake Christmas candles and uncomfortably scan the audience as they cross IN FRONT OF EVERYONE looking for their seats and then - presumptuously- decide to go right up on the stage and have a conversation.
They talk for awhile, and - it having become clear that the actual cast isn't going to show up - Travis and bassist start playing the score.
Fortunately for everyone who paid $44 dollars to watch "Forever White," these boys turn out to be VERY VERY VERY good.
Everyone thinks so. You can tell. Several couples reach over mid-ballad to clasp the hands of their significant others. It's either sweet sentiment or spasm stifling. Only ONE PERSON is asleep. Two fifth-grade girls in the front row begin to consider going home after the matinee and starting down the path to masturbation.
Caleb is doing serious acting and sex-oozing. Ian is making faces and delivering subtle facial hemorrhaging at a level I've never before seen. And I consider myself a mistress of the subtle nosebleed. My mother is in stitches. Travis puts on a pantyhose fruit bandanna and Richmond theater critics everywhere jot him down for a RatCock nom. Other Seymour is doing a killer job of finding discreet places in the show to whip hankies out of innumerable secret pockets in his costume to wipe his face. He should get a moment backstage if he needs it. I've never seen one human do that many lunges in the space of 2 minutes in my life.* The boy who (I think) lives with Ian and the snatched Swift Creek Mill kittens who Mr. Will still tries to forget is hitting notes never before reached on the Tavern stage. And I should know. I once had to sing a five part "Apple Blossom Time" as the bottom tiered alto on that stage and I TRIED.
Everyone is grinning- even the cantankerous old men and Audras. My mother is cocking her head in that way she does when she identifies a hard to nail chord coming up and is impressed with the result. But mostly- MOSTLY- it's the sight of some girl I don't know and half of Katherine's head and arms swaying back and forth in the stage management booth for THE ENTIRETY of the longest ballad in the show that proves just how justifiably adored this production is.
Forever Triceps.

*JS Fauquet will take issue with my referring to him as Other Seymour.

Fancy A Stroll?

I'm a walker. Whenever feasible, I stroll wherever I need to go. I find it much more motivating to walk rapidly toward something I love- like the theater or a gas station- than simply around in circles toward chafed thighs and a bad attitude. My brother is a runner. He woke up one morning six years ago and decided to become a marathoner. So he did. By the end of that week. Once, in an attempt to be a supportive sister, I jumped in on a marathon he was running at mile 25 for ONE BLOCK. I figured by mile 25 he'd be at a pace I could easily match. Well, I matched Scott's "hardest part of the race" pace for almost entirely half a city block before collapsing on the sidewalk and wheezing out good luck wishes along with the entirety of my saliva as he sped away.
Point being, I use walking as my primary means of exercise. But I've been slacking on my workout regimen of late, and here in Idaho, I'm determined to remedy that. Hailey, ID is great for a million gazillion reasons- one of which is its similarity to Richmond, VA in that you can walk anywhere you need to be in under 30 minutes. (It is NOT great for the sole reason that anyone with normal lengthed arms CANNOT reach the second row of vegetables at the Atkinson's salad bar due to the imposing plexiglass salad bar roof which cuts you off at the clavicle, and therefore may NOT have the tomatoes, the mushrooms, or the red peppers, but that's another story.) So I've been strolling around- back and forth to play practice, my favorite Hailey gas station*, the movie theater, and so forth.
Things are going well. I'm feeling healthy. Then comes Monday. We have a photo shoot for our play. I'm handed a lovely green dress- beautifully made, twirls, all the good stuff. I slip it on, button it up, and fasten the belt. I turn around and face the mirror. I am Dolly Parton. As a crunchy brunette instead of a coiffed blonde.
I screw up my face. This will not do. There's a moment in this play where I am expected to stuff a cookie into my cleavage and I would prefer to remove it one page later as a solid. Not as dust. I'm going to have to ramp up my exercise regimen.
I know! I'm surrounded by mountains! I shall go HIKING.
This is a great idea. I fancy myself quite the woodswoman ever since my third ever camping experience two weekends ago during which, one morning, after a dewy morning stroll to the scented port-a-let, I realize I am the only person awake. So I shimmy up a tree by the river and sit quietly watching the sunrise. As I sit, I hear a roaring. My first thought is that it's a jet. It's not. It's an elk. An elk crossing the river. I watch it cross. It cuts behind the port-a-potties and disappears into the woods. Oh my God, I think. I'm motherf*%#ing Pocahontas! I remain in the tree until other campers have awoken and ventured down to the river. "An elk! An elk just walked past the campsite! Did you see that?!?," they exclaim. From my perch I turn my head slowly, hoping the rising sun is silhouetting my profile in a very regal way, and intone, "Yes. I've been up here for hours watching the rising sun. I saw the creature cross the river." Everyone is very jealous. I continue to sit in the tree feeling very self important and imagining myself a mountain ninja for holding so still that an actual elk from actual nature felt comfortable enough to cross the river right in front of me. I sit until both my legs fall asleep and until everyone has retreated to the other side of the camp to make breakfast so I can painstakingly inch my way back down the tree without anyone seeing me potentially crash to the ground and ruin the illusion that I am at perfect one with Mother Earth.
This experience, along with the fact that I saw a moose once, convince me that I am fully equipped to be a hiker.
Tuesday morning. 6AM. I wake up. I consider starting my hike. Then I think, no. That's ridiculous. Is nature even open at this hour? I go back to sleep. 10AM. I have no real excuse. I don my favorite maroon overalls and glittery squirrel baseball cap and drive to the foot of the nearest mountain. Drawing a deep breath of fresh mountain air, I start up the trail. It's amazing. I am taking the mountain by the peak, so to speak, and really experiencing life. Eight yards later I realize I'm walking up someone's driveway. Retreat.
I find the actual trail. I am stuck behind the only other person for miles and miles- a very kind woman walking a dog named Lola. Lola is not inclined to power walk. Lola has a close personal relationship with every dandelion along the path. Lola's mother keeps telling her to "come along, Lola." I start hissing "come along, Lola" under my breath. Half a mile later, it's being hissed over my breath. Fortunately Lola and mom cut off the trail shortly thereafter to meet some buddies at the foot of the mountain.
Speaking of the foot of the mountain- said foot is at this point roughly seven inches below where I'm walking. I am feeling snooty and unimpressed with this so-called "hiking." Where are the REAL mountains? Where is that mountain I brazenly skied down on my first trip to Idaho thinking my Virginia skiing experience would serve me well, but then realizing that ski mountains in VA are really only mosquito bites and ultimately taking an entire hour to reach the bottom of the slope. On my butt.
Whatever. It will be a good experience, this "hiking". I am enjoying how the Idaho dandelions Lola was so fond of look like Virginia dandelions on roids. Could easily be used as ninja stars. I'm also walking quickly, as is my habit, and can tell my heart rate is elevated. I can FEEL my boobs dissolving.
Suddenly- a quandary. The path I'm on stretches ahead- carrying on at its seven inch elevation. To my left, there appears a much thicker, rockier path leading straight up the mountain. I hang it.
Now we're getting somewhere. I am HIKING. I can tell because I know that when I decide to come back down I am absolutely going to fall down the hill. It's that steep. My mother's going to be furious. I hike and hike and shrink my boobs for about twenty minutes. Then I happen upon a birch log which seems to have just fallen out of nature as a bench. I sit. I gaze. I am, again, a regal nature princess. I decide to call my brother. He is very impressed that I am hiking. I tell him all about the trails and pathways he'll need to run when he's here in a couple of weeks. I tell him about how the first trail I was on was for wussies and that I have adventured beyond. He says, "What about wildlife? You know, you have to be careful out there." I draw breath to sniff dismissively. Before I can exhale I remember with bracing clarity the cougar scare that plagued the town for 2 weeks the last time I was here. Well, crap. On the one hand, a cougar attack would be a solid excuse for getting out of rehearsal.** But I desperately do NOT want my brother to think I am anything short of Bear Grylls, so I say something I've heard on some TV show somewhere- probably Shark Week and therefore entirely irrelevant- "Oh, well, in the summer months creatures are not driven to the lowlands." We hang up. I consider descending and going home. But, as I am my father's daughter, I continue on. I text my stage manager to let her know that I will potentially die on this mountain. I'm a responsible actor.
The path changes. Rather than a path, so much, I'd call this a "maybe a worm crawled through this grass- once.". But I am Pocahontas. I am not afraid. Then I step on a grouse and experience heart palpitations and turn around immediately.
I text all my friends- "I just stepped on a grouse" - as I figure I'll want to remember that, and start off in search of a different route.
I find my original trail and happily make my way back home.
Gotcha. NOPE. I find ANOTHER uncharted "trail" heading to the peak at a 90 degree angle. That seems good.
I hike. I hike and hike and hike. I hike and pant and hike and gasp and hike and finally sit the hell down. I think maybe I've hiked enough for one day. It's been two hours. I've sweated. I've posted an Instagram photo of a dandelion. I try to justify my quitting pre-peak by telling myself I'll do this again when my brother gets here. But the part of me that's my dad kicks back in. I continue to hike. Pant, gasp, hike, sit. I should've brought water, I think. Not just the dregs of a Orange Vanilla Coke Zero. I think about cougars. I'm bracing my feet in the rocks to rise again and resume my heroic journey when a bee becomes very interested in my backpack.
I stand still. I think about cougars. Cats are the worst. While not tickled about the bee, I'm not afraid. But wait- I can use this! Swiftly my brain does the math and yes- yes! I can justify abandoning this hike as a result of the bee! I WAS allergic as a tiny child, and despite the fact that ever since I was stung on my way to a piano lesson at the age of fourteen and realized there on the sidewalk that I was no longer allergic (but used the sting to get out of my lesson anyway)-I think here, on this mountain, with only the grouse to judge me- I can use that excuse again!
I scamper/tumble down the mountain. This is really the best decision for everyone. My mother I'm sure would prefer I not be consumed by a cougar, my stage manager would prefer not to send my director on as Lenny MacGrath in "Crimes of the Heart" (thought he'd be brilliant), and I'd prefer to exercise myself over to the gas station to buy a squirt gun before I try this again. That's what you use on a naughty cats. right?


*The Stinker
**Rehearsals are actually LOVELY.

THE DOUBLESTUFFS: Farewell Tour!

ONE WEEK OF PERFORMANCES REMAIN UNTIL THE BAND BREAKS UP!

But don't fret- while the privilege of living inside an episode of "Animal Planet: The Fall of  Recliners" will be no more for Audra, you -- yes, you -- now have the opportunity to take a band member home and goggle FOREVER at how every poop they produce is three quarters the length of their body. 

(Representing agency is Richmond Animal Care and Control; Audra can forward all inquiries)

AND NOW- SOME UPDATED BIOS!!!

1. Gidget:

Hey! I'm smiling. I do that. Audra thinks it's weird and suspicious. Part of why I'm smiling is likely because I'm cupping my brother's butt. I've long overcome the stigma of having an off-center toupee and now embrace and advocate for everything I am. One of those things is a member of Pantsuit Nation. I will without fail scale your ankle, shin, crotch, and chest until I hook my front claws into your clavicle and declare at full voice any opinion I am strongly holding at the moment. I fancy myself real slick at approaching Audra's meals from "unexpected angles." But in reality I'm terrible at that and am slowly accepting defeat. (Chances lower daily that this animal turns out to be a rabbit.)

2. Fezziwig:

Yep. It's me. Still the only one who agrees to participate in hat-wearing or any other sort of nonsense Audra is always promoting. I'm extremely lanky and a little salty about it because it's starting to seem like the only thing I'm going to be suited for is the NBA. The oddest thing about me is that I photograph like a total badass but in reality, all I want is to be cuddled and close to Audra. She tosses me on the floor a lot, though, so I'm open to new consorts. My name is now Fezziwig because Janine suggested "Fez" but that didn't prove quite strident enough for Audra to yell. There is a perfect black circle on my tummy where a human navel would be. If that matters. 

3. Pickles?

This is the best photo ever taken of me. And not just because of the perfect rosette of my genitals. I am a boy. I'm not sure what my name is. But it needs to be something involving boogers because my sole purpose in life is to wake Audra up every morning by trotting up her torso and devoting myself to a rigorous and toothed extraction of any wayward snot wads she may have developed overnight. I try not to hurt her, and give her occasional breaks from the excavation by pressing my face into her ear and purring as hard as I can. I find the rough-housing of my siblings to be amusing, but beneath me. I indulge. I need to rest anyway, because COME HELL OR HIGH FLORENCE I WILL be in the bathroom every time Audra goes in there. I come highly recommended. And not just 'cause I'm a black cat and no one seems to want those. (He's actually the sweetest.)

4. THUD:

My name is THUD. Short for Thuddeus. So named because every time I indulge in my favorite pastime of falling off the couch, Audra anticipates an eviction notice. This photo exists because this morning I woke up, hopped onto the couch, and sat like this for over five minutes. Just staring at Audra. I think I knew I needed a decent headshot to get adopted. That, or my thumbnail being stuck in Audra's basketball shorts prohibited my leaving. I am solid as a rock and have huge chubby white paws. I know FULL WELL that I am not supposed to chew on the cord of Audra's rubber dolphin lamp. So I don't. I jut swat it once and then sit beside it waiting for her to hear me and come toss me on the floor. Which works out because that's ultimately my favorite thing anyway.

5. Stewie:

Hello. (Please hear all else in the voice of Stewie Griffin.) You should mind your own business, but since you're here and STARING AT ME, you may as well know that I only grow sideways in my head and roundways in my gut. Stature: short. Don't pick me up and expect me to sit in your lap and coddle you, you needy human. I'm just waiting for the government to fetch me and begin my responsibility of saving the world. Maggie really likes me. But she's never MET me. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA. And don't think you're snatching any kibble from my while I rest. I sleep embracing the food dish. I'm all over you. I don't even know why I agreed to be featured in this post. Bugger off.

SO,  come and get 'em. They'll be avay through Richmond Animal Care & Control a week from today. After you've adopted one, you're invited to stop by my funeral because chances are slim I'll live through the week. 

The Doublestuffs!

"The DoubleStuffs: A Pussy Spectacular!"

Act I: Audra's Bathroom
Act II: Audra's Bathroom

Producer: Richmond Animal Care & Control
Stage Manager: Audra Honaker
Costumer: God

1. Gidget (All Female Roles):

Gidget has worked extensively on the Richmond regional theater circuit. Primarily covering melodramatic high soprano sidekick roles, she is eager to hopefully perform her first lead in the near future as someone's house cat, of all things. Having spent her formative hours working to overcome the perceived shortcoming of appearing to wear a toupee (thanks a lot, Adam Dorland), Gidget occasionally acts out by vocalizing when it's entirely inappropriate but overall, is a fine cast mate. She harbors hopes of becoming a writer one day- as evidenced by her routine jigs across Audra's computer keyboard. (Gidget's understudy will be on tonight as a result of an unfortunate accident wherein Gidget fell a great and mysteriously forceful distance after dislocating the Caps Lock key.)
2. Gadget (Understudy to the Male Lead):

Gadget comes to us fresh off a stint of looking exactly like his sister. With a lower hairline. Audiences love him for his perpetually dirty nose, apparent even after eating dry food, which Audra really doesn't want to know any more about. Gadget was down to the wire for the male lead, but lost the role due to his proclivity for being buried in the food bowl any time rehearsals were starting. Admirably full-figured, he hopes to captain the city's first kitten burlesque squad.
3. Gasket (The Villain):

Typecast due to his rakish good looks, Gasket is familiar with his role. Having first made a splash with audiences due to his unprecedented vertical white moustache, he has taken the theater world by storm. Growing tired of run after endless Broadway run, Gasket is pleased to be trying his hand on the touring circuit and is excited to explore RVA in this, the national premiere of "The DoubleStuffs: A Pussy Spectacular!"  Recent tabloid reports that Gadget's dusky foot pads indicate a less that cleanly lifestyle hold no water, Gadget avers. He was born this way! (Audra gets out the Palmolive....)
4. Grommet:

A cat. Nothing to be done.
5. Gimlet* (Male lead):

It's an honor, truly, for RVA that Gimlet has deigned to appear on our stages. A legend long before his time began 4 weeks ago, tales of Gimlet's prowess stalk stages everywhere. His ebony coat; his gravitas; his smoldering blue eyes coated lightly at the corners with a film of salmon pate. Audra does not know how to make an accent mark. This tour marks the first time Gimlet has required an understudy. This is due NOT to any shortcoming of talent but rather to an unfortunate and (so he claims) entirely involuntary tendency to empty his bowels anywhere onstage but DEFINITELY NOT IN THE LITTER BOX.

WE HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW! Anyone interested in housing actors should contact Richmond Animal Care & Control. Or Audra, and she'll give you the info.
*Gimlet appears backlit courtesy of AEA.

Audra & The New Neighbor

I hate cats. Following a recent stint of fostering kittens, I have been reminded yet again that they're nasty, dirty, spiny, loud creatures who think nothing of hooking their talons into your cuticle beds to haul themselves onto the couch. This morning I emailed the lady in charge of foster care at the animal shelter to let her know that I needed to drop off nasty biscuits #8 and #9 of the summer as I am going to be out of town the rest of the week. Immediately I receive an out of office email. I grumpily cover back up with my blue blanket and try to figure out who I can convince to come over and tend to kittens for the rest of the week.
I fall asleep because I have been up since 3AM watching BBC comedy clips on YouTube. I awaken at 1:38PM to an email from aforementioned foster care coordinator saying that she is indeed out of the office but that if I can get the girls to the shelter by 3PM, someone would be there to dispose of them.
I spring off the couch, stuff the kittens into their carrier, slide on my prized $2.98 yellow flip-flops from Walmart purchased especially for my camping trip back in May and hustle off to the car. I do not bother to brush my hair or apply a bra, as the staff at the animal shelter are all lovely people and completely accepting of me as is.
Kittens deposited and free of parental duties, I sail off to the movie theater because I have the afternoon off and I really want to see that movie "Three Identical Strangers" about those triplets who were separated at birth. I treat myself to a giant bag of Sour Patch Kids and sit, as I am wont to do, hermitishly in the back row alone with my backpack occupying the seat beside me and my arm slung over the back of the chair on my other side to make it seem as though I am reserving it for someone. I eat my kids, glare menacingly at other patrons who enter and make even a whisper of a move toward my row.
The movie is quite good. I was best friends with a set of twins in middle school and have always found the concept fascinating. Both of them had a knack for wearing ladies plain white Keds extremely well. I always tried to match their skill level, but never quite pulled it off.
I drive home, find a lovely parking spot, and in strolling down the sidewalk by my building, glance into the window of the downstairs apartment. The previous tenant moved out a couple of months ago. I know that because one day the garish twiggy wreath complete with green burlap ribbons and giant carved wooden "M" bedecking the front door was gone. So she'd either moved out or finally realized how rude it is to hog the whole front door of a building of which you are not the only occupant with a tacky wreath featuring your- and only your- first initial.
I've been peeping in the window for the past month to see if anyone had moved in. Last week, I noticed some bamboo plants and....some guitars. So I got pretty excited. After all, I have a bamboo plant. And a brother who plays the guitar. But I'd yet to see the new tenant.
Today though, as I walk in the main, and blessedly wreathless, door to the building, the door to the apartment in question creaks open. I smile. This has happened twice before. With the past two tenants. This is where I get to play benevolent, street-smart, lady of the city and inform the new tenant that they must slam their door completely else the vacuum effect created by the main door of the building opening into the foyer will cause their front door to pop open as well.
I knock.
Immediately the door is swung wide. Inside, smiling at me, is a very, very cute and tanned man person struggling to put his t-shirt on.
"Hi! I'm Matt!" He says.
Great, I think. Who that I know ISN'T named Matt. I'll have to carefully consider whether or not there's room for him on the roster.
"I'm Audra," I say. "I'm glad to meet you finally."
I then use a phrase I've always wanted to use but never had occasion- I say: "Pro tip- you have to make sure your door is shut very tight or else it'll pop open when the front door gets opened."
"Vacuum effect?" He says.
"Yes." I say.
He continues smiling at me. Then- "You'll have to forgive me, I've just realized I've got my shirt on backward."
"No problem, I say." (I instantly remember that I am clad in my favorite 6-year-old paint stained summer camp t-shirt, that I am wearing no bra, my Monster energy drink cap, and my Walmart flip-flops-which by the way have broken hours earlier in the movie theater and are hanging on by a thong and a thread. I am proud to be wearing my Idaho sweatpants, however. If you don't appreciate those, then who cares what you think.) I gather my thoughts.
"I've been wondering who moved in down here," I continue. "I noticed you have lots of plants AND guitars." He pauses in the act of twisting his t-shirt around and my eyes widen. There's no way I could see his guitars from this vantage point, so now he surely realizes I've been peering in his windows. Whatever, I'm not creepy.
He seems to deem me safe and continues smiling. "Would you like to come in and see the unit?"
I snicker. And enter the apartment. I've long been nosy.
There's a large red couch. I like that. An oriental carpet. Not as cool as my $10 glittery rag rug from Ross Dress for Less. A table littered with bags and stuff and a figurine I can't identify. Books. Oh good.
"You have books." I say. "That's good." At this point I've mostly forgotten about the guy and am just satisfying my curiosity. He gestures for me to enter the kitchen, having finally unwound his arms from the innards of his t-shirt.
And here is where I think I started to make him nervous.
"Is that a washer or dryer?" I grind out. He turns to me, smiling (surprise, surprise), and says, "It's actually a combination of both!"
INFURIATING. My apartment does not have this. I want my apartment to have this. I've always thought since the Pilgrims built this building that it wasn't able to support such things, but now!
"Oh, I'm gonna write I strongly worded email to management!" I announce. I spin on my heel to stride smartly out of the kitchen and.....my thong snaps. (The one on my shoe.) I turn back to face Matt XIV and bend down. I pick up the now worthless wedge of yellow foam. I say, "My shoe broke. Earlier." He.......smiles.
I head back for the door, clutching my shoe. I am thinking I am sure this has made quite an impression. The quality of which I may not want to know. But before I can exit gracefully, I am stopped in my tracks by the appearance of another apartment item which leaves me speechless. I turn to Matt XIV.
"Did you paint your radiator? IS THAT A BLACK RADIATOR? That is VERY COOL." I'm probably panting and foaming at the mouth. His smile has begun to waver. "No- I didn't paint it. It.....was like that...when I got here."
"I see," I say. "Well, that's TWO things I'm going to mention in my strongly worded letter!"
He opens the door for me. I am reminded suddenly that I'm sure my breath smells like Sour Patch Kids and that my hair could snare a yak. AND THAT I'M NOT WEARING A BRA. I bound across the hall to my door and disappear through it.
I think I might tape a note to his door tomorrow. It will not be strongly worded. But he will probably have moved out.