Tag Archives: Period

Everything’s Broken

16 Nov

…No, *not* Politically. 


(…Yeah. Very much that too.) 

…I am actually referring to the office. Where I am pacing. During my Lunch 2.0. Because our phones and servers have been down,  all day long, with no idea of when they will be back up again. But because I’m employed by idiots,  I’m still here at the office. 

…”In case. ”

“In case” of what?  I dunno. Because even the few times one or the other has worked today, it crashes thirty seconds later,  and we are back to square one. 

…And this being…you know,  *this* century and all…there is absofuckinglutely nothing for me to do but file papers, without the Internet. And I’ve done that. So now I’m being paid to take a second lunch and type a blog into my phone. 

…Which I guess is me: winning .

…Even if it is winning on a stupid technicality. 

(Which I think a lot of us are kinda “over” with,  this week.)

…Anyway. I’d say, “I digress, ” but I wasn’t really aimed anywhere to begin with…so… 


(I got nothin’) 

I am only writing this now because I’ve FB’d as much as can stand for the day, already read the new Guardian stage reviews, updated my Fitbit app, and watched a bunch of blurry episodes of “Remember WENN, ” on YouTube… 

(…then Google’d all those actors to find out what they’re doing now, and why that show hasn’t been released on DVD, so I can buy it.) 

…And now I’ve got a headache. Prob’ly from watching and reading things for hours on this tiny screen. 

…And I’m sad for the family loss, of an extended family member. 

…And I’d rather be outside, walking these thoughts out in a proper walk in you know…”air”…for free, than stuck here, pacing a damn lobby for pay. 

…And then after a while I could pop on my audio Winston Churchill book…

…And let my mind go back to places it wants to be. Back in London. Back before a lot of things got sad and shitty. 

…But Winston Churchill rallied. So, I will too. 

…And at the Dames retreat -and-meet tonight, I’m gonna flip the finger to day-3 of Mrs.Johnson’s visit, while wearing pj bottoms and my London Tube tube socks…and eating: whatever the flying fuck I want to. 

(Mostly of salt) 

(And potatoes.) 

(And prob’ly: bread.) 

So really, this is a blog about absolutely nothing. 

…And you read it anyway. 

…Cuz, we get it: you n’ I. 

Hang tuff, friend. 




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!


Joan Crawford, You Bitch

2 Sep


It’s like she knows…she knows the timing most ill to arrive and fuck with you…am I right, ladies?

…She even tag-teams the really important times with the most bitch- version of her personality. Because opening a giant show isn’t enough, nor is month-end…following a major Holiday weekend sale. No, no, hell no! We need you all drugged and water-logged as well, with aching everything’s…and that super special sensation of wanting to barf every time you open your mouth to talk.

….This really coincides well with two pages of customer bookings and a dress rehearsal where you talk at high speed for about two hours, virtually non-stop.

…Which is all to say: the dame’s been dead for decades now, but Joan Crawford is still the biggest bitch around. Let it be known.

Meanwhile, nerves decided to hit me this weekend like a ton of bricks. Which has only ever happened in one other show ever, that I can recall.

…Nerves belong on Opening Night…and maybe a few seconds after “places” call. Nerves don’t have any form or function this early in tech week. Because there’s just too much shit to do still, frankly, and the adrenaline rush helps you zero-much right now.

There’s sort of a lot riding on this role and this show…personally, professionally…it’s opening a theatre season, there’s a giantly talented team who helped to get us here, and this is a bucket list role. I really don’t like screwing up anytime, but I would REALLY hate it in this instance. And I’m afraid that the roughly eight hours of sleep I’ve gotten this weekend from obsessing about it, isn’t helping.

…Ye olde friend Anxiety has been whispering tales to me, and as we know, that bastard is a hard one to shut up. Which means a lot of added concentrated energy I already don’t have at the moment has been aimed in that direction this weekend. Until today. Because I’m too damn busy (outside of this sandwich break) to pay it any attention.

….Which I suppose is the only good thing about how freaking busy it’s been in here this morning.

So, winning?

…I’ll call it a “win.” I could use one to get a leg up on what comes after this.

I know, I know this show. I know I’ve done the work to support it. I know I know my path and what it takes and feels like to follow it from beginning to end.

I trust my team.

…I just need to freaking breathe…

…And trust “me.”



20 Jun


It is Friday, though I am commentating still from my Thursday blog.

Mrs. Johnson decided to show up about ten minutes to curtain, slapped me around a bit back stage, but managed to keep in her place whilst all the important things were happening.  Which was good. For her own sake.

…I pack a mean wallop.

Just finished my little pill cocktail for the risidual pain, and am about to hit the hay. 


My own.

…More than a bit despressing to be handing out weekly $7,000 checks to contractors, while I collect my own little piddle amount, for the second time this month…but some is more than none. 

…And I’m treating myself to a new phone.

Upgrade time.  And I’ve spent MONTHS researching exactly what I want.  And, by jumping T-Mobile ship, I get it for $400 less than if I stayed.

I hate change. 

…But I refuse to pay half a grand on something a third-world-nation child makes in a factory for 5 cents wages per day.

…To be frank, even if the kid got $499 of it, I still wouldn’t pay it.

Have you any idea how long it takes me to save $500?

…Me either. Thanks to my never-ending bills, I’ve yet to once ever fucking do it.

So, Hello Sprint and the HTC One.

The end.


Portrait Of A Lady

3 May


I adore Oscar Wilde.

…His delicious turn of phrase, and the stinging snap of talent he had for making fun of his own society.

…I like to think he caught the gene by some inter-marrying, 12th-cousin-removed bit a-la Jane Austen, which he then passed on (via intellectual love-child twins) to Noel Coward & PG Wodhouse, who would pick up and absolutely run with it…following then one talent upon the other until we reach current day masters like Julian Fellowes (with his tongue-in-cheek alter ego, the Dowager Countess: Lady Grantham), and Stephen Fry (with his everything.)

…The love/hate relationship between the players in their worlds are magnificent, and ridiculous…full of excess, silver-spoon-fed charms, and often, completely sheltered, backward, innocents. They go to places like Ascot, and Royal Assemblies, own crowns made of ancient jewels traceable as far back as their earliest blue blooded relatives, go to court, are presented to the Queen, have “coming-outs” (not in any way associated with their sexual identities), regularly “do” the Season, and have titles that make their calling cards and room-arrivals, whip heads to attention.

…And this is the world I have delightfully been welcomed into, with my next role…(after a stiff fight with a hell of a lot of talent in the room.)

The Honorable Gwendolen Fairfax, daughter of Lord and Lady Bracknell.

As extravagant and precisely turned out as a wedding cake in human form, this splendidly spoiled young woman of means and royal shoulder-rubbing, is fast on her way to becoming a force to be reckoned with, rivaled only by her mother.  She knows what she wants and always gets it, and always will, and that is as it should be. 

…God bless the English Aristocracy.



What fun to roll these words around with my tongue and glean the perfectly timed-out significance of a single, solitary, rise, of, eyebrow.

Mdm. Director has shared that “choreography” will be more the tune we set, than mere blocked staging.  Every movement, a clean-cut, efficient, specifically intended gesture…to better tighten-up and suck the air of excess out of the performance, allowing the language to take center stage as the icing on the cake.

…As it bloody well SHOULD be.

Sheer de-light!

A lot of work ahead.

…But this time without diving into war histories and genocides and suicides.

I loved my time spent in the last two worlds of theatre, but now we have moved on through a vast time warp to ridiculous frivolity, wrapped up in corsets and big hats, where women would rather kill themselves with kindness than ever admit their rankles are up…where butlers and man-servants abound, multiple households are a given, but the house number coming from the “fashionable” side of town, is REALLY what matters. 

…A world where people are so completely wrapped up in themselves that they invent OTHER selves purely for the sake of “playing,” get engaged months before they’ve even met, and keep diaries simply for the joy of a sensational read on a boring train ride.


…And I think, a fairly interesting character study via “diary entry,” is soon in the coming.


Pirates, Paperwork, Pasta, & Polish Sausage

2 Apr


Up before the rooster again, for pill-taking purposes.  Heating pads galore.

…Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.

…A bowl of pasta sprinkled with Moroccan chili spice, tossed with Polish sausage, and a spinach salad for dinner.

…A rehearsal that, for all the world, felt like the first one after five days off, with a bunch of new props, and the semi freak-out realization that we open in 10 days.

…Cloudy contacts all the way home.

…And why the hell did I hit the scale when I promised myself I wouldn’t until hormone water retention was past? 

…And why the hell, most especially, after a dinner containing half of Europe in my guts?

When was the last time I took pain pills?

All the past three days of 5 ams and 10 ams and 2 pms and 5:30 pms and 7pms, 10 pms and 1 ams, have bled together in one long string of pill-taking that honestly leaves me baffled on when and how the last batch was achieved.

I hate pills.

…And the scouting for pretzels or whatever to eat them with…

…When it’s still dark out…

…So I don’t puke all over myself…

…From upset tummy…

…Caused by the pills…

…Which are supposed to make me feel better.

So goes the medical profession.

…Their own special brand of “job security.”

…And speaking of medical professions:

Have spent past two days pirating Call the Midwife, Season 2.

…While paperworking.

As always, when I pirate, I feel bad and immediately kill each episode I rip, post-mortem.

…And add it to my Amazon wish list for actual purchase.

…But this way I still get to watch it when I want to…

…While poor.

…Without having to wait.

…Because I don’t feel like it right now.

…And I didn’t feel like it for the new Jonathan Creek, either.

…But I mean: for fucks sake, it has Joanna Lumley in it.

I’m not WAITING for that!

I’m WATCHING that!

Hells yes I am!

…And then I’ll put it on my list of things you should buy me for my birthday and stuff. As like, a sponsor. Or enabler. But it has nothing to do with food, so that’s okay.

…And speaking of food:

I want my pillow worse than a brownie fudge sundae right now.

…So I’m gonna have it.

…It’s way cheaper in calories, for one thing.

…And I’ll be gladder for it around 4:30 when the cramps begin to start beating on me again.

Yes: “Gladder.” I said it.


Continual Search Of…

31 Mar


Trying to find comfort from cramping all day.

…Heating pads, countless cups of tea, a walk…sitting, standing, laying…pills, fizzy waters…nothing has helped. 

Perpetual discomfort all day, and it’s ramping.

…So am off to bed, in desperate need of sleep.

Tomorrow: month-end completion, and weekend sells hit.

I already just wanna cry.

…But I could take it, if I could just get some sleep.


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