I Was Asked…

5 Nov

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Back by popular demand…I’ve been requested to do an office update. 

…What air-headed new upset has The Gnome gotten into? Has WHS Pimp followed through on his custom designer tampon line?  What shenanigans can two actors in one real-world job situation get into?  Exactly how much junk food can you consume in a single day without puking it back up again?  These answers and more, in our ongoing soap-like drama of Brothel-joy.

First: The Gnome has been on maternity leave for over a month now.  For which we are all glad. “Stupid” may be occasionally cute and funny when tempered across several week’s or months of time in a “greatest hits” kinda deal…but when you actually have to deal with it live and in person every work hour of every day, it is fucking exhausting.  What is nice is not having to temper screaming things like, “OH MY GOD, HOW DO YOU STILL NOT KNOW HOW TO FAX?!” or “YOU ALPHABETIZE BY LAST NAME NOT FIRST…HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MANY FUCKING ‘FREDS’ ARE IN THESE CUSTOMER FILES?!” before I’ve even had my morning coffee. On a continual basis.  

…Basically, I can get through the day now without wanting to punch a pregnant woman in the face…and I count that as a win.  Especially as unless you try to interact with her in person, that just sounds really bad…like I’m a super terrible person.  And while I’m no Mother Theresa…I’m hardly a Mussolini.  But a person can only take so much active stupidity across an extended length of time, without mentally rebelling in some way.

…Which is how Tina Fey’s Sarah Palin impression REALLY got born.

True story.

…Anyway, she hadda boy.  The Gnome.  And we haven’t heard from her since. We hope, for the child’s sake, that she somehow birthed a savant who can feed and diaper himself…but other than that, she rarely comes up in conversation, unless first prefaced with something like:

WHS Pimp: Where the hell do you think she put the contract for that thing? 

Me: You mean as opposed to what a NORMAL person would do with it?

WHS Pimp: Yeah. Like…what was her “system” do you think?

Me: It’s cute how you think she had one.

WHS Pimp: No, but seriously though.

Me: It could, literally, be ANYWHERE.  Anywhere at all.  And I’m speaking actual not-shitting-you truth.

WHS Pimp: Fuck.

Me: Welcome to my world.

…Meanwhile…

Cecil of “Earnest” fame, has taken over The Gnome’s domain.  In the past month she’s ripped all the files out and alpha’d them like a normal person would, has digitally archived all record retention needs, learned how to do contracts the right way THE  FIRST TIME, and brought a plant in, called Ruth, who sits in the lobby being green and anti-depressive.

…A giant-fat-wealth of betterness has come in her wake.  Also an almost constant stream of theatre talk and commiseration zombie-eyed mornings on tech week.  It’s nice to have another in the room who gets it.  Since she’s joined staff, we’ve made it through two closings three rehearsal processes and are on our third opening weekend.  It’s manic, but it’s what theatre peeps do…so though we manage the ebb and flow accordingly, WHS Pimp’s head spins with conversations like:

WHS Pimp:  What the hell? Didn’t you just open a show last week? How are you closing already?

Me: No, that was my show.

WHS Pimp: Which one?! You’re doing two right now.

Me: No, I closed that last one, and am only doing one now.

Cecil: That was me.  I just opened.  But then I’m rehearsing now too.

WHS Pimp: Like she just did, with the two-at-once thing?

Cecil: Right.

Me: But then I closed the one, and am almost to tech week for the second.

Cecil: But I had to close my last one first because they are at the same theatre.

WHS Pimp: What?

Me: My second show and her first show are in the same season at the same theatre, back-to-back.  So her show has to close first, while I’m in rehearsal, meanwhile, she’s in rehearsal for her second show at a different theatre.  Her first one is closing soon, which means my second one will open soon, which means shes about two weeks from opening her second one.  Somewhere else.

WHS Pimp: For fucks sake!  How the hell are you even awake right now?

Me: Well, she’s twenty.  And I drink coffee. A lot.

…Meanwhile…

In Other, Other News:  WHS Pimp’s GF got him to sign up for a race. Like for running.  With his legs and everything. Apparently, “for fun.” It has been a journey to watch him combat morning stiffness in every joint, with afternoon pizza devouring, and after-work gin gulps…which he sends in IM’d pictorial proof together with titles like, “I made it to the end of the block without stopping.  CHEERS!!!”  I told him that though I’m not the best dietary nutritionist on the planet, I doubted that after-run hydration recommendations include alcoholic beverages…even if mixed with nothing.  To which he said things like, “Nonsense! Gin is mostly herbs, berry extract, and rubbing alcohol! If nothing else, I’m a homeopathic genius!” 

…Weeks of this ensued.  Together with talks about special anti-chafing underware, iso-socks that can cripple you if you put the wrong one on the the incorrect foot, and debating on whether udder cream, Vaseline, or chapstick is the best to combat this raw-nipple problem that apparently runners get who don’t have to wear three kinds of bras just to keep their boobs from knocking them out on the up-jump. 

…Across two month’s time he’s dropped about $350 on crap just to do this race…which blows my fucking mind, not least of which because it isn’t even a proper sport and requires not a single tool in order to actually do it.  When the hell did running turn into a multi-million dollar industry of whole shoe stores where people squat to watch your stride and make sure your $180 trainers are supporting your heavier in-step fall than your rolling out-step?

I dunno.  But whatever the craziness, it ended this last weekend.  In one single run.  The pictures of which show him purple-faced to the point where anyone would assume he might drop dead of cardiac arrest at any moment.  The look of pained concentration, with his 11 layers of light-weight, stream-lined, state-of-the-art gear blearing in florescent reflector glory, was a sight to behold. 

So was his walk, on Monday.

Me: Lookin’ good buddy.

WHS Pimp: Ffffffuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Me: –So full of healthy awesome!

WHS Pimp: …Oh god….

Me: –So energized…

WHS Pimp: …Sweet Jesus…

Me: — Just the picture of rock-hard-badassness.

WHS Pimp: She signed me up for another one.

(Total silence)

WHS Pimp: …I might have to break up with her.

(I nod, and offer a cookie.)


(He takes it. And starts to cry. Ever so softly.)

~D

 

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