Archive | February, 2016

The Burgermeister Meisterburger Troll

25 Feb


Have survived another visitation by Corporate for inventory count, calling it out loud as I watched the rental car pull off our lot.

…Every quarter the counts have to be made, which (in a perfect world) should be the only time we see these people. But (of course) it isn’t. Not when you’ve gone through all the management changes and shit that we have. For a bit there, the bastards were occupying our lobby and reproducing like fruit flies…tag-teaming one for the other…or sometimes swapping two-for-one, across months and months of time.

…Since then, we’ve gone from 32nd in the Nation to 3rd, and finished counts in 2.5 days instead of 5…so: here’s hoping we’re off the shit-list now, and those asshole good-ol-boys can go dick around in someone else’s lobby for a while.

“Why so hostile?,” one might ask, (if one were anyone other than a late-middle-aged white man.)

…The reason is, of course, due to the fact of how little has actually changed in Corporate America since the Don Draper years. And having to try to do actual work while it actively fights against you in the form of dozens of long-lunches, loud conversations by your desk, no tangible answers for anything important, half-assed problem solving, and lots and lots and lots of cigarette smoke.

The Chief-Boss of our region is actually one of the longest-term employees of the company, therefor, likely the most useless. He paces the lobby on this cellphone at all hours, wheezing and attempting to cough up the same deep phlem ball he’s been culturing in his lungs since prob’ly 1956. Through this, he yells into the phone, as if attempting to cover the west to east coast miles in lung power he obviously doesn’t have, in between puffing on an unending supply of Winston’s.

…This bastard, every time he comes, soaks our branch in hotel suit, mini bar, write-off Happy Hours, and BMW rental fees, across weeks at a time, while constantly on the phone with other places, doing whateverthefuck, but certainly not in the least helping with things here.

…In fact: he smells up the place, drinks all the coffee, and yells so loud on that fucking phone, it’s like a major battle just to get my own crap done. And so: I despise him.

You would too.

…Even if you didn’t know that he looks like the love-child of Burgermeister Meisterburger and a Troll from Trolls 2.

…But now: you do…

…And now he’s gone…

…For (God-hope) at least a month or two…

…If we gotta have this 1960’s office crap, why can’t we at least get the benefit of the old, “bottle in my file cabinet/flask lunches” to compensate?


Cecil & Gwen Do The UK

22 Feb


There might be cooler things than a former Cecily and Gwendolen having High Tea at Harrods, London…but prob’ly not.

…Unless it’s them also certing up in RADA classes, while there.

…And getting rush tickets to two weeks of shows…

…And being in Stratford during the 400th Shakespeare anniversary…

…Doing reads with past Cecil abroad-year friends…

…And meeting her former Profs…

…And taking a day trip to Edinburgh to hike my Fitbit on a serious legit Highland tour, obliterating even the neatest of fake digital badges…

…And visiting Lady Croom in her new digs…

…And having a day in Bath…

…And doing writerly things…

…And swapping, “this was my favorite thing /place/event when I came last time, so lets do it again” stories…

…And surviving on food budgets of bread, cheese, and wine, like French peasants…(which is way cooler than Raumen, black beans, and eggs, our now current budget, stateside.)

…And a layover in Iceland, so we can say, “Hey, remember that time when we (ate/drank/pooped/spent a krona/took up whaling) in Iceland??”

So, thanks for the early, giant birthday surprise, Cecil n’ Ma…

…And for all the memories which haven’t even been made yet, but will…

…Which I’m not at all excited about in the least.



This Is How You Do It

15 Feb


Due to already being booked for a show mid-yesterday, (and a variety of other reasons), Cecil n’ I were depressed and already together in a car heading back from Seattle when we decided to link up for the whole night and do something totally decadent…like we deserved.

…Having no idea what that would be as yet, and with we are talking the very “last minute,” of last minute planning– we reached my house at 3:30, and immediately began tossing back drinks, like an Ab-Fab reunion special. By 4, we were sensibly sloshed, but with a plan.

…And because magic things sometimes happen to drunk people…we Ubered our way to arguably the swankiest place in town, walked right into their open seating bar without reservation, and had two $15 cocktails in front of us within 3 minutes.

Who gets this at a place booked a year in advance? We do!

…Who gets filet minon and presented a long stem rose from a hottie bartender? We do!

…Who documents all the unbelievable radness on the Facebooks, so we can remember it all on days that really blow? We do!

…Who gets extra red wine sauce and are mid food-gasms when a call comes through to the bar about us? We do!

…Who has boss-friends who do things like put money on your tab, which you decide to thrust immediately towards a chocolate fudge Julia Child dark brownie sundae with Madagascar vanilla ice cream? We do!

…And then who Ubers back home for a three hour dance/kareoke party, supported by Stoli vodka and Juanita tortilla chips? We do!

…Until 8-something…by which time we’ve buzzed and resobered twice, before going to see a girl movie where we laugh and cry, and binge (amazingly somehow) on even more junk food.

…And somehow… SOMEHOW…the magic lasts all the way to this morning, with not a hint of hangover.

Of course, as much could not be said for the Boss, whose foul mood has been oozing out of his every pore all morning long.

…Some people obviously just don’t know how to do V-Day the right way.

…And some people, fucking rock at it.

The end.



Woe Unto The Cecil

10 Feb


*Note: the situations in this blog are real. We don’t even change the names to protect the innocent. They don’t need mutherf***ing protection. They can clobber your ass all alone, thanks.

(The phone rings)

Me: Yus.
Cecil: Am coming over. What are you craving?
Me: I’m good.
Cecil: I’ll be there. I’m coming.
Me: Got it.

(A bit later, the buzzer sounds and I press the pass button. I am wearing my home costume, which I always put on as soon as I enter my door…like Mr. Rogers did. It contains whatever shirt I wore today and pajama pants. I hear clomping up the hall stairs as I open the door, and a curly head rises past the bannister.)

Me: Almost there…

(A furrowed brow and frowny face rises into view.)

Me: Allllmost. Keeeep trekin’…

(Cecil emerges, her arms full of stuff, including a bunch of flowers of which she shoves at me as she walks toward me, with disgust.)

Cecil: I bought you flowers.
Me: Okay.

(Cecil and groceries smoosh into me just past the door, and stay there. She stands with her face in my hair all muffled, as I hug her.)

Cecil: I wanted them.
Me: Got it.
Cecil: And all this stuff.
Me: I understand.
Cecil: …I put the box of chocolates back. But mostly only cuz the heart box depressed me.
Me: How do you have this much money?
Cecil: I charged them.

(We move into the kitchen where she unpacks a loaf of French bread, Peachy O’s, Honeycomb chocolate, red wine, Pamprin, and a tub of double fudge dark chocolate mudslide ice cream.

…I prep and vase the flowers.)

Me: Wanna talk about it?
Cecil: I cried nine times today.
Me: Uh huh.
Cecil: All of them, for no reason. Like the ice cream…
Me: Oh yeah…?
Cecil: I didn’t even know I wanted ice cream, till I was passing by the aisle all pissed and saw it and was all….

(Her face scrunches instantly and she starts to cry, again)

Me: Mm hm…so you got it.

(She nods, and pulls herself together.)

Cecil: Another time at the Sales Manager, when he asked me to double count and till the cash in his office.
Me: “At” him…?

(Cecil rips the French bread in half and bites a giant chunk off of it.)

Cecil: …And then this little asshole challanged me to push ups…
Me: Wait, what? The Sales Manager?
Cecil: No this like five year old kid was all, “You’re not the Black Widow. You can’t even do a push up.” And I was all, “Yes. I can.” And he was all, “No you can’t…” So I got up out of my chair, walked around my desk, dropped onto the floor IN MY DRESS, and did eight push ups.
Me: …Because of this kid.
Cecil: He belonged to some customer.
Me: …Kay…
Cecil: But, yes. He was an asshole.
Me: Don’t tell a woman she can’t do a thing.
Cecil: Fucking right!
Me: Best learn that lesson now, son!

(We grab the flowers and armfulls of junk food, heading to the living room, where she opens and pours wine, and takes a giant gulp.)

Cecil: Bridesmaids.
Me: On it.
Cecil: (Between gulps)…And then there was this seminar.
Me: Yuh?
Cecil: Inner Peace and Emotional Stability.
Me: …This is at work?
Cecil: –The speaker is this psych guru guy, comes in, does this spiel, and then is all, “Anyone have any questions? ” And I raise my hand and say, “Yes, what are easy ways to deal with day-to-day anxiety? ” And he asks me, “What do you want?” And I say, “To not be anxious. ” And he says, “No not ‘what you DO NOT want’ but ‘what DO you want.’ What DO you want?” And I’m all, “Um, to be CALM?!”
Me: –Uh huh.
CECIL: …The rest of my day was total shit after that. Just sat at my desk doing bare minimum. Lookit my phone history..

(I do.)

Me: (Reading) “Why am I Moody on my period.” “Chocolate for period.” “Best wine for period.”
Cecil: …While crying…
Me: There isn’t like a mutually exclusive type of wine or chocolate, babe, but I think you’ve hit a highly marketable idea…
Cecil: …And I read this article where this PhD wrote about how some women can have this total emotional wreck-house feeling for 7 to14 days before and after their periods! And that’s like…THE WHOLE MONTH!! Can you even imagine?! What if my hormones are changing and I become one of those women?!?

Me: …

Cecil: …Which is all NOTHING compared to the “Boy Toy” text war about how, just because he’s a PT and knows anatomy, that somehow means he understands my mentral cycle better than I do.
Me: Oh. HELL. No.
Cecil: No! No! You don’t get to think you know whats going on better than I do. It’s here it’s happening. TO ME!
Me: –Over and over again–
Cecil: And won’t shut up, even when I tell him to. He just keeps egging it on. Telling me it isn’t disgusting or horrible when I’m TELLING him, I FUCKING LIVE WITH IT! Don’t TELL me what it isn’t! You have no idea what I just took out of my vagina in that bathroom, asshole…NO idea what it’s like to have no physical control of your own person…the pain, the gore, the emotional roller coaster…the aches, the binging on everything in sight…

(She eats a spoon of ice cream and washes it down with wine.)

Cecil: …Telling me, “I respect you and your opinion about your menstrual cycle…”
Me: Well, that’s big of him…
Cecil: “…But it’s all clean and natural. And don’t forget, I’ve studied a lot about your anatomy, and what happens…”
Me: –Not the same thing–
Cecil: “…And even though I’ve never been with a woman sexually during that time…”
Me: –Amazing how he just keeps digging that hole–
Cecil: “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Me: –Or: not.
Cecil: “…I just want you to know, I don’t find it gross or repulsive or a wasteland or something…”
Me: –For the love of god–
Cecil: “You have your thoughts on it, which I appreciate, and I have my views, which you’re now aware of.”
Me: …
(Long pause.)
Me: …
Cecil: RIGHT?!

(She pours another glass, rips off another chunk of bread and pops a Pamprin.)

Cecil: FUCK periods!
Me: Fuck em!


Nominal Fever Ravings

5 Feb


I need a break from this Chekhov.

…Am stress dreaming about it at this point, because with almost no rehearsal other than talking about it, we open in 9 days.

….And while “concept” is great and all, I need to “do” the fuck out of a thing in order to actually build a tangible reality. One cannot just “theory” a show into existence. But we are having to…because we don’t have time together without giant gaps in between, and schedules are so harried from everyone’s conflicts, that there is no like “panic meet-up time” where one can get private scene partner work slipped in, or try every which way to do a scene, or…well…

…Anyway…I’m toasted. Have been reaming this script alone for days and hours and trying to make choices, hoping they won’t interfere with scene partner’s choices (who I’ve never worked with before), but having to stake out like three or four levels of options here so I can alter or try to connect my stuff to his stuff, for tomorrow morning…when we next meet up.

4 more rehearsals to figure it all out.

…God. You know you’re stressed when Stoppard is the easier, happy place you wish you could fall back into.


The required post-show crash hit, was obtained and nursed for half this week, on my couch. A lot of sleeping. A lot of first generation X-Files-watching (which I had never seen the first time ’round.) I happen to think it’s fun, badass, and slightly terrifying…whilst simultaneously worrying about my cold being a deadly alien variety which has no earthly cure, and/or becoming abducted.

…I wish I was joking about that. But: I am not.

…I induced it even further into my Psyche by watching some episodes across hours of fever sleeping…so now I feel inevitably doomed, in a very deep marrow-of-my-bones way…but have to keep viewing, as like a “How To” mental log of how to combat them, when they do eventually come for me.

…The truth is out there. And so are “they.” Cuz there’s no fucking way that the buck stops at humanity. Microscopic animals take us down, for gods sake. Lets get real, here.


…No X-Files after dark, is the rule mandate. That’s reserved for script stress, and inevitable alcohol consuming. Mostly with Cecil. Who I gave the cold back to. Cuz I’m an awesome, sharing, sister-friend that way.


…It’s Friday night. Rent is due, therefor: I’m broke. No Arcadia to go play in. Too distracted about tomorrow morning’s rehearsal to go see that other show I was going to, tonight…even as a PWYC. Which is prob’ly better anyway. Am still not back to even 80% ungross-feeling, across any length of time.

…Oh, and Mrs. Johnson dropped in…about three hours ago…to mix it up a little.

Oh, what a wicked cocktail of life, I do breed…


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