troupe dreams

where i don’t talk about the oscars or march madness — I’m that self-centered this morning

How early is it?  Oh, man.  It’s early.

I’ve started a new shift at work.  It’s early.  Early in the a.m.  But I guess that means earlier entries for you guys.

hip-hip– zzzzzz.

I must do laundry.

This is how bad I have to do laundry.  This morning I couldn’t find any clean socks, so I’m wearing sandals.  It’s like fifty degrees outside, and I’m wearing sandals because I had no choice.  That’s pitiful.  Our bedroom consists of five piles of clothes:

1.  Clean whites that I haven’t put away, all piled up and wrinkled because I cleaned them a week ago.

2.  Clean darks that I haven’t put away, all piled up and wrinkled because I cleaned them a week ago.

3.  Dirty whites and darks all in a pile.

4.  Wet towels that we never hang up.

5.  A mystery pile of maybe clean and maybe dirty that started when I dumped all of my clothes when I returned from Aspen two weeks ago.

It is out of control.  This evening I will tame the clothes piles.  It is my promise to myself.  I have tonight off, which is nice and unexpected, seeing as how the show is in a couple of weeks, but yesterday was a good rehearsal, where I brought in a script that we will follow for the show.

As it gets closer to show time I find myself talking to myself more and more. Rather, I think I’m talking to myself and in mid sentence I will think, “Why would anyone care what I’m saying?” and I look around and no one was near me to listen anyway.  This happened last night while I was complaining that everyone leaves the door open to the bar and I have to go and close it or we get in trouble.  “I guess I’ll close the door,” I started, and then that Mom Alert went off in my head that I was complaining about something that wasn’t such a big deal.  I turned around and said, “I’m sorry,” to absolutely no one.

“I’m talking to myself again,” I said to myself.

I just go a little crazy taking care of fifteen people.  Getting them all arranged on an eight by eight stage when everyone wants stage time and wants to be front and center.  I actually made this announcement:

“Someone has page one through fifteen of the script.  Whoever has that needs to get with Christie because she has the other half of the script.  Everyone please look at your scripts because someone only has half of the script.  Please, everyone look at your scripts, because when we start working you will find you only have the last half of the show.  I am saying this because someone has it.  Someone has to have it.  Everyone look at your scripts.  Like my script here has… only fifteen pages.  Everyone, I have the script that has only half the script.  I will now get together with Christie, just as I told myself to.  Carry on as you were.”

And again, the strange comments that directors make that actors understand have started coming out of my mouth.

“You can be in the Monkey because you’re Dick Van Dyke.”

“Don’t look at the blood when you talk.”

“Everyone shouts ‘ass’ at the same time.”

“No, the second time we’re gonna do Hooray for Sex, not Heroin.  Sex not Heroin.”

Which I think is a great slogan for the anti-drug council.  Sex, not heroin.  It’s catchy.  It’d make a great bumper sticker.

And of course the dreams about the troupe have started up again.  Last night I had a dream where for some reason we were all staying at this one apartment– I guess because we were on tour or something.  Anyway, everyone was fighting with each other for one reason or another.  One girl punched another guy.  Somehow Eric and I decided not to live together anymore and I was living in a dorm with one of the girls in the troupe.  She had found this co-ed dorm and given me a corner of the room.  There was no room for my stuff.  Also they didn’t allow cats.  I had to give Taylor and Lillith to Eric.

No one wanted to do any of the shows because they had all been spending so much time together in this apartment/hotel type thing and in every room someone was complaining about someone else, and for some reason it was my job to make sure everyone got to the theatre on time.  I remember I was carrying one person over my shoulder and kicking another one into my car, and one of them turned around and said to me, “I’ll go, but you better not put me in the Pan Left/ Pan Right.”  And the other on my shoulder whipped around and said, “Oh, doesn’t it just suck to have to be in the show.  At least you’re in the show.  I never get to do anything.  I just sit there.”

Then there were nine people in my car and they were all complaining about the fact that I had forgotten the lions, which I guess were very important to the show that evening, and I was trying to explain that the producer had forgotten to get them signed in at customs or something, and it wasn’t my fault, and they were like, “You’ve used that producer excuse one too many times.”

I’m losing my mind.  I know it.  Come July I will crumple into a tiny ball.

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