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.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Saturday, August 17, 2019
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.
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.
Thursday, June 13, 2019
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.
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.
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