Tag Archives: laundry

Things That Go “BANG!,” And Mournful Bunting

4 Jul


Home early from The Fella’s, and In-Laws. Stone. Cold. Sober.

…I’m sure this in not how the Founding Fathers intended America’s biggest party day of the year to end, for me.

But here I sit. 

…Because work is tomorrow, (after a Holiday sales blitz), with the beginning of a weekend full of shows riding it’s ass, like white-on-rice.

I feel I planned well, in-all, as plenty of drinking happened earlier in the day to offset the not-having-any-later, deal. Plus, having eaten half a cow and a lot of pig (with incidental greenery on the side), I think absorbed all the residual alcohol, and/or coerced it into helping break down all the stuff in m’guts, soon after.

…Which is basically a “workout,” if you look at it in some ways. (Like the world where ice cream doubles as your dairy qualification for the day.)

The amount of food I’ve had across these past two days, does worry me a bit.  Not so much in the fact that I won’t fit into my costumes…(that’s what a corset is for)…but that it will be exponentially more uncomfortable to be squeezed into them.

…But I haven’t totally ignored my responsibilities in that realm. I did manage to run lines today with The BFF, (as in days of old), to  keep verbally fit and ready for tomorrow. And as part of my coming-home-early-to prep-for-tomorrow bit, finally fished out my tights from the show-bag, where they have lazily resided all crumpled and stinky, since last Sunday. 

…And now, as I listen to endless pop-rockets, snap-dragons, and gunpowder bangs outside my window, clean black tights hang in their place along the shower rod…drooping like mournful, wet, bunting.

There is something strangely satisfying in my bathroom being taken over by show laundry, hanging to dry. 


…Harking back to centuries of other show people, from Vaudeville to the legit stage, who have done it before me, and will long, long after I am gone. 

Some things never change:

…The late-night excessive banging of illegal fireworks outside your bedroom window on the fourth of July…and prep, the evening before your next performance, being two of them.

Happy Independence Day, friends!


Victorian Commando

29 May


The Fella just left from a cheese-eating, line-running, catch-upping date of yay: he over a beer, me over a whiskey.

…He brought me condiments, from the house, as he is in the final process of “move-out,” where he will be soon to join The BFF in the land of New Orleans.

Every theatre (and it’s people) in town will mourn his leaving, on scales: artistic, inventive, technical and in performance.

I frankly don’t even want to think about it.  So stop bringing it up.

…He helped me level out my TV sound system while here.  Cuz he’s a Wizard. 

The WHS Pimp had brought in a kick ass sub woofer et al for office use, to which I said, “Balls to that!  I’m taking this shit HOME!”  And I did.  And set it on the lowest possible level.  And instantly became the kind of asshole apartment neighbor we all hate, with constant booming rumbles through the entire length of a movie. 

I made sure to put in a good action one to really show off.  The explosions were awesome, and the helicopter sounded like it was actually landing in my own living room.  I’m sure the neighbors thought so too.  But then, once The Fella came over, I had him fiddle with it to get a better talking balance versus the constant sound of impending doom that a sub woofer seems able to deliver by instinct.  He of course managed it beautifully, killed the added echo, upped the treble, and has it balanced like a dream.

…Only it’s too late now for ‘splosion movies, so I’ll have to play with it again tomorrow.

In the mean time: a second session of Pilates.

…And tomorrow: laundry and rehearsal, followed by post-cast-bonding…under the express encouragement of Mdm. Director.

Laundry is a total must.

Down to my default underwear again.  And I’m seriously considering going “commando,” over wearing that butt-floss thong bullshit, (which I keep only for such emergency purposes.)

…Only somehow, I don’t think “commando” wears well on Gwendolen.

…Something tells me, Mamma wouldn’t approve.


…Course, what she doesn’t know, couldn’t hurt her…


Night Off

15 Mar


Climbing Mt. Laundry tonight, after trying to walk off the half-a-burger I tried to shove down my throat. 

…Lost the battle. 

The smell made me want to cry…all forlorn and partially eaten, after all that lust I’ve been batting away for the past six days.  There it sat…next to it’s little bed of left-over fries…quite possibly the saddest thing I’d seen all week. 

So I threw it away, and bundled up for some air. 

…45 minutes later, managed to get home just as it started to dump on me.  That was like half an hour ago. 

…Now am listening to the Julie London Pandora station, up to my armpits in sorted laundry, making dirty little islands of color all through my hallway into the living room.  Ten pounds of quarters are set in pre-piles on the stove, with the detergent…and the timer is set for my first two loads to get transferred into the industrial dryers.

God, I hate not having a washer and dryer in my own house.

…Granted, the facility in only in the basement on the other end of the building…but still…it’s “over there,” and I’m “here,” and “public” means having to put pants on and everything.

…So much work, you guys.

Meanwhile: Marty is nearly ready to get curled and wigged for her performance…having just Opened last night.  And I am recouping from a wicked bout of huge contract influx at work, followed by last night’s first run of the show.

…Not bad.

…The show, that is.

…The “office” is just the fucking “office.” And always will be.

Tomorrow: I’ll be traveling down to Marty, who will be teaching me to knit, for purposes of the show.  Which means when this is all said and done, I’ll have a most ugly, misshapen, worn-torn-Europe, black-market-yarn blanket as a souvenir.

Only I would be excited about this.

…And I am.  

(Sips at first can of Coke in a week, and burps loudly.)

Man.  That’s beautiful.  Do you have ANY idea how totally satisfying it is to get that deep, baritone, Coke burp again?  Lots.  It’s lots, satisfying. 

…Especially after 47 million cups of tea, black coffee and Talking Rain.

(Buzzer starts shrieking.)

…Whelp, that’s m’cue.

Off to wrestle the reds and whites.

Happy Friday, all.


A Break

30 Dec


Delighted day of a break from emo worlds of blubbering, and snotting on a stage, as well as paper-working, adult babysitting and all the other fun stuff it is my privilege in life to do.

I washed dishes today and did laundry.  That’s about the extent of how far I was willing to go.

Now I’m looking at (hopefully) a full night’s rest…uninterrupted by strange dreams, or alarm clocks…followed by a double run of Act I on set for the first time…followed by a whoppin’ New Years Eve celebration of yay…followed by the beginning of a New Year that will be stellar-amazing.  I can already tell, ahead of time.

…Because I am gonna MAKE it that way.

And speaking of “stellar:” shout out to “K” and “A” the newly engaged, and “J” the recently Birthday’d.  I miss you guys like mad, and look forward (with drool) to the day that we can all sit around and catch up on the million-and-one life things that have happened with the latter part of this year.

Meanwhile: twelve days to Opening.

Time to dig the spurs in and go for it.


Default Underwear & A Day Off

13 Oct


Here is a sweeping blanket statement of truth: I am not a procrastinator, unless it scares me, or has something to do with laundry.

I only go to Doctor offices when I feel like I am actually dieing. And I only do laundry once I’m down to nothing but hair dying towels and my default underwear.

…I’m just gonna let that  last sentence sit there for a bit, wide open, so you can have plenty of time to fill in the pause with every one-liner that I know you want to slap in there.  Because I care about you, is why I give you these opportunities of joy.  Remember that later, people…at Christmas and on my Birthday (for instance.)


…So the deal is: for the past…I dunno…seven or eight years, I haven’t lived in an apartment with its own washer and dryer.  Even though EVERY TIME I moved out of one place that didn’t provide those things, I swore up, down, and sideways…with booming voice and grand hand gestures, that I would: “…NEVER LIVE IN ANOTHER APARTMENT WITHOUT A DISHWASHER OR LAUNDRY CLOSET OF ITS OWN, SO HELP ME GOD!”

…And about a week later I’d be signing a lease without one or the other…except for my current place, where I’ve lived for five years now, which provides neither

Basically I was wooed by facial esthetics, like a giant whore, and didn’t give a shit about what was on the “inside.”  And this is what materialistic sunsabitches get, my friends…they get beauty with limited actual “functionality.”

…Anyway, this is all to show that the procrastination in the “laundry” instance, is not entirely my fault.  Not having my own facility makes it more difficult, because I keep odd hours with two jobs and don’t actually feel like standing in the toxic orange, badly lit, storefront laundrymat at 2 A.M. with some creepy toothless dude sitting one chair over from me, waiting til I’m done pairing up all my socks, before he rapes and kills me,  then stuffs my body into the turbo spinner where people clean all their sleeping bags and comforters.

…So I opt out of that.

…But then, I can’t exactly use the basement laundry room connected to our building either, cuz there are apartments just next door and we have cleaning curfew rules. And only three washers for the entire complex to share. Also, I never have quarters. And (I find) in a world where people depend on mass amounts of them for things like parking, and video games at pizza restaurants, and laundry…that people who HAVE all the quarters never want to SHARE them with you, and it becomes like a scavenger hunt, just to get enough out of the gas station, the grocery store, and the mini mart on the way home…to do one and a half fucking loads. And when I finally actually get around to doing laundry, I’m lookin’ at five loads minimum. How the hell does that even help me at all?

…So that’s out.

…Which leaves my Mom’s house.

….Yes. At 32 years of age, I am still doing laundry at my Mother’s.

I spend half an hour separating all my colors out across my entire front hallway, then pack them up in several giant IKEA bags, grab the soap and a book, and motor over to Ma’s, where I will spend (I kid you not) my ENTIRE day, just doing laundry. (And scavenging her food cupboards, like a High School babysitter.)

….Which means that I have to pick a total day off (from work AND theatre) in order to accomplish all this. And those days come roughly once per month, on average. And when they do, the last thing I wanna do is my fucking LAUNDRY.

…The long-story anecdote of which, I’ll now end by stating: Today is a day off. Entirely.

And I am not doing laundry.

…I’m going to play with “M” and “K.L.,” instead.

…So my default, uncomfortable-but-still-technically-functional-once-upon-a-time-bad-idea-buy-mostly-on-a-joke underwear are just gonna have to deal with it.

The end.


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