Tag Archives: Makeup

First Dress

4 Nov

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Hello civilians, and welcome to first dress rehearsal. 

…Our call is late, due to blocking of the the theatre’s follow-up Holiday show taking place on the same stage, directly before our call.  In short: the December show is running about on our stage right now, (as we once did to “Sherlock”)…and will continue until 4:30…at which time we begin arriving in shifts in various states of makeup and hair, to tag-team, sort out some adjustment fittings, and ship things directly out into the makeshift on-site alteration and stitching department currently holding state in the lobby. 

…As of yesterday’s costume parade, I had nothing to wear but my corset, shoes, and stockings. They are still piecing my blacks together, built in copy pattern to a gray dress I tried on a little over a week ago, whose color was veto’d but style and fitting was approved.  Will be doing my hair and makeup at home, to avoid time-crunch and also have a slew of my own outlets for various curlers and irons, as I invent the styles to begin with. Plenty of elbow room, music, and pictorial inspiration on the internet, ready on my computer, at click-command.

…Also, right now: a stew is cooking in the crockpot.

Got up this morning to make a cup of coffee, and feed meat and veg into the slow-cooker, before surveying the damage of last night’s spur-of-the-moment mini party. 

A couple of casties, (post eats, post cue-to-cue), didn’t want to give up the ghost quite yet…so I rushed home to prep their arrival, and make sure we had enough mixers.  Many talks on many subjects, with “Anonymous” on in the background, a shared stogie on the back patio, a trip planning thrown out there, and YouTube vomits of the most ridiculous videos we know of, that we feel compelled to force other people to watch and thus be forever equally scarred from, for life.

…Marty, I think, wins for that South African husband and wife freak-team.  And you can wonder at all it’s wrongs here, should you choose. (Their “Ninja” one is as least as horrifying.)

I need more coffee, but the last bag of beans has been killed, and I mourned it, even before this one cup was done perking. Thus, I am forced into tea…which is lovely when you want tea, but when you want “coffee” there is no solace to that desire unless you feed it what it demands.

Coffee is very S&M that way.

4 hours and 24 minutes left on the stew clock, and a sink-and-a-half of dirty dishes to see to.

…But first: heat some water, pop in some “Shakespeare In Love” or “Stage Beauty” or “Henry V” or “Richard III”…or any of the eleven-hundred others keeping to the current theme…take a walk, take a shower, and set my hair to begin the regime.

This is one of those days where you spend almost all of it, just prepping for the end-game…as first dresses always have, and always will be.

~D

Tunnel Tranny

26 Jul

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First of all, this blog is in no way a personal judgement call on those persons who happen to genuinely enjoy decking out in the opposite gender’s accoutrements…for whatever means of pleasure it may provide them.  This is, however, about the appropriateness of time, location and circumstance for those who do it just for money, at my place of work.

…Which may be a little confusing seeing as I have often referred to this place as a public Brothel.  But it isn’t “really.”  The fact that we have our own Tunnel Tranny (like some people have their own Tunnel Troll) is not within the norm of our particular “business”…just so you know.

…It started several months ago.

Our offices take up a sizable plot of land, down in the port.  Busy traffic, and our neighbors, keep it safe and watched…I’ve never for a moment felt “sketchy” about working here, or unsafe in any way.  Ports are busy places.  And what with the rail right by us and the freeway, traffic is at a constant stream, roaring outside the windows and just down the street.

…But when it turns nightfall, I’d say this place would prob’ly turn into one the top ten places that you just don’t wanna be.  Too many shadows and large machines and containers to hide behind and inside and between…too many places to kill you and hide the body in. Too eerily echo-ee.  Also, we have this tunnel, a small overpass for the Amtrak rail that is literally just outside my own office window.  And a couple of months ago, a new phantom resident began pitching camp there, ‘tween whatever hours where we are not present. 

No one has ever actually seen him. 

…Which is really something, considering the span of hours we keep here, at the Bunny Ranch.  But we know “of” him, thanks to the wardrobe he occasionally leaves behind, and various other accessories.  We go on the presumption he is a man, given the size of his shoes, and various intimate clothing articles.  We go on the presumption of his “trade,” given the occasional cast-off makeup, accessories, fishnetting and wigs.

…He prefers being blond, for instance.  Short, curly cuts, most especially, but he does have an ironed “look” option as well. And he takes, “Maybe you’re born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline” to it’s most literal translation.  He’s not the greatest fashion-setter (unfortunately)…the other day we found a pair of brown go-go boots next to a crazy-print black blouse, and sweatpants. And his house slippers don’t match each other let alone his boxer shorts.  Also, he has substance abuse problems involving gross amounts of Rockstar and Wild Turkey (possibly together, possibly as chasers.)

…He doesn’t smoke (from what we can tell), but he does chew…which you would think might screw up his lipstick line at bit.  But I guess that doesn’t bother him too much, as we’ve no detection of mirrors…but he does enjoy a good morning newspaper. After a particularly disturbing appearance of a travel gas container, we’ve also concluded he’s either a sniffer, or a Pyromaniac.

…We still have offices though, so are placing bets on the former.

All in all, he keeps to himself though…his clump piles to his tunnel home.  Occasionally they redistribute into new grouping and staging areas…which we toss up as some kind of tunnel version of a multi-client house party. Occasionally they float a little too closely to our property line, but seeing as you couldn’t pay any of us decked out in full-out hazard gear to touch any of it, the piles remain as they stand…until such time as his next tunnel-cleaning, or orgy.

…Meanwhile, wardrobe comes and goes according to weather and season. This one time, he tried the life of a brunette without (I’m guessing) much success as the wig has never returned. And for whatever reason he sometimes leaves us Happy Meal toys out on the mailbox slab.  I think as a sort of peace offering. 

We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us. 

…And somewhere in his head I’m sure he feels more secure in the fact that we are here every day, watching his stuff.

We try to be good neighbors.

…But if he ever bakes us a thing of cookies and leaves ’em on our doorstep, I ain’t eatin’ ’em.

One must draw a line at some point.  And that is mine.

~D

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