You know life is good when you not only get to wear fishnets on stage, but also a bustier and GREEN ANKLE BOOTS.

I love theatre...

Moving the office this week. It's quite the mixture of a "root canal in hell" feeling and a "my boss is nice" feeling. For instance, today was filled with disorganization, standing around, heat, and lots of bitching. But, my boss also paid for lunch, let us have beer during office hours, and sent us home early with a full day's pay. So now I'm all stinky and sticky and sweaty, but also full and boozy...and it's not even 5:30 yet.

So yeah, it was quite the day...I've also laughed a lot today, made other people laugh, been pensive, stood up for myself, and I even cried once, too. Yes, cried.

Oh my word...I think I'm finally becoming a woman.

The screen is black, and all you hear at first is the sound of sloshing water, the hints of a soft breeze, perhaps even the buzzing of a cicada. Then, rippling, blue, reflective water fades in, almost blinding in its sunshiney beauty, and the water is so clear and beautiful that even the audience wants to jump right in...you can almost smell the suntan lotion, and the faint whiffs of cigarrette smoke as the camera pans out to reveal a pool setting and catches that the cigarrette smoke is coming from the rebellious, wife-beater clad teenagers who are trying to be cool at their table and chairs under the umbrella in the corner (they're using an old soup can as an ashtray.) Music fades in...it's Frank Sinatra softly singing--as though from an old, tinny radio--the one about "tall and tan, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she's passing each one she's passing goes...ahhhh". The camera spans around the pool, revealing lounge chairs, and then there (on "ahhh") stops on a woman lounging in one, oiled to the extreme, one knee up, one arm over her head, the other arm placed strategically so as to cover the rather large ass hanging out the edge of her two-piece, over-sized aviator sunglasses protecting her eyes, her bikini top straining valiantly to push up what it can to greet the Sun, that fickle god that gives color to the young and cancer to the old, whom the girl worships in all its fiery glory and can't get enough of. She shifts in her chair, and the audience notices she could probably use a few more crunches, but hey, her arms aren't half bad (has she been working out?). The camera cuts in close to her face, and a smile plays around the corner of her mouth, and then we realize that she's dreaming, and the camera fades into her face and shows us her dream, (backed up by Frank, now louder, in full sound, "oooo, but I watch her so sadly, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah") which consists of the girl, in her mint green and brown bikini--ass now firm and toned...c'mon it's a DREAM--and she's slo-mo jumping and leaping around the edge of the pool like a young gazelle, and then suddenly she's in the pool, water streaming in rivulets down her flat, chiseled stomach, in between her boxom bosoms--a DREAM!--and she's splashing water everywhere, and even though it's so Paris-Hilton-stupid-over-the-top hot, the audience can't look away, and she does a terrifically huge, sexily laughing splash, when suddenly then the camera cuts back to real time, music kicking off abruptly, and shows the girl getting doused by an enormous splash from the fat, pasty-white kid (already pink on his flabby shoulders) who's just decided it would be an opportune time for a cannonball. (He's wearing goggles and has his nose pinched shut with one of those plastic thingies.) At first, we see she's flabbergasted and gasping from the shock of the cold water and a tad irritated at having her dream interrupted, but the kid smiles chubbily and waves, and she smiles too. As the music fades back in--tinny radio again--she leans back, the little smile returning to her lips, while the camera pans out and goes back whence it came from the beginning, past the chairs, past the smoking teens, back to the sparkling blue water, and fades to black, while Frank finishes: "She doesn't see me...she doesn't see me."

The pool's open, folks! Happy Memorial Day to me!

Two more for your enjoyment:

"I love working out on the ecliptical machine."

"I can barely read your handwriting. It's not eligible."

So, most of you that know me well know that I'm a confident person, especially (ooo, there's another one: expecially...) when it comes to my own skills and strengths. :) (Ask my sister about the time I was four and came down the stairs in a horribly mis-matched outfit and told the whole family to leave me alone because, "I looked sharp.") I realize that this is a strength as well as a weakness. I realize that oftentimes it's an act on my part. I also realize that it's usually blind confidence, misplaced confidence or even ridiculously naive over-confidence. Today I fell prey to the latter, and I feel like I should maybe puke a little bit.

Okay...overstatement, but bear with me.

The other day, out of the blue, I get an e-mail--from a company I submitted my resume to months ago--asking me for a phone interview. I want to be employed by said company... badly. I think the place is fascinating, and I think I would be able to utilize my skills and strengths there in a number of different ways. Well, normally, I would state confidently (with just the right level of confidence...not too much as to sound cocky, and not so little as to seem as though I'm fishing for a compliment) that I'm very good at interviewing. I know how to exude the "hire me" air, and how to best show how I would be a great match for the job.

Not today.

I thought I was so awesome at first, being all witty and clever and confident (curses!), and then suddenly, I find myself babbling uncontrollably and sounding a bit like I spoke the Aboriginal language fluently (minus the clicks). I literally had to stop myself in the middle of a sentence and start over (with, I believe, the phrase, "What is going on?" Yes. I said it out loud...on the phone...to the woman interviewing me...who could possibly give me a job: "What is going on.") Then, where I normally pride myself in being able to say just the right thing, I somehow make it sound as if I'm not interested in the position at all and end up backpedaling furiously to make up for my verbal vomit, which really only made things worse.

Does anyone have an icepick...TO SHOVE IN MY EYE?

The thing that makes me so upset is that I thought I would be so amazing and neglected to put in the work I normally do to back up my confidence. I didn't do my homework (recently, at least...if only just to refresh my memory) and sounded like a total idiot. I got off the phone and wanted a smoke...and I don't smoke.

Oh well, learning experience, I suppose. A "character builder", if you will...

Although, as I've said before, "building character" is just a euphemism for "amassing life-long scars ."

Beer, anyone?

So whaddya (yes, "whaddya") all think of me starting my bio for the Cuckoo's Nest program like this?

"Although playing the deliciously slutty, vapid and loose Candy Starr wasn't much of a stretch for Sarah, she was glad to be typecast in her first Emerald City Show."

I could end like this:

"She would like to thank The Friar, The Pip and Martha for their love and support, and her boobs for their small but memorable part in the show."

Fun.

KL has not told me just yet WHY I shouldn't just start my own theatre company, so I'm still going ahead with the idea. I'm not opposed to asking other theatre companies in the area to band together to put in more quality work (and I know I'm going to get flak for even saying half this stuff..."She thinks she's so great, blah, blah, blah..." "She thinks she's too good for what's already going on, yada, yada, yada." This is simply not true. Seriously. You should see my--so far--lackluster performance as Candy and know that I'm not always on top of my game. SO PLEASE STILL CAST ME, PEOPLE. I REALLY DO WANT TO BE IN YOUR SHOWS AND WILL DO MY BEST AND ALL THAT CRAP. Sheesh.) I just think there should be one theatre that does what I have in my head that my theatre would do. And geez, if it ended up being successful and it was my actual JOB, holy crap, that would be "living the dream", you know?

And I'm all for barreling through and stepping on people's heads and toes and feelings and morals and sometimes smashing in kneecaps to realize my own dreams.

Oh my word, did I just write that out loud?

I went a little DVD nuts this weekend and purchased Sense and Sensibility, the new Pride and Prejudice, Serenity and Big Fish. I'm going to have a movie night soon, and some of you are invited...

...you know who you are.

Okay, I'm done being a brat for the evening. Catch you later...cuz I'm that fast.

I went and saw Chess last night in Cincinnati with Marc and Christopher. Not only was it great company (and food and martini's!) it ended up being a fabulous show. Seriously, it was amazing. And, it was community theatre.

Which made me jealous, and a little mad.

Why is Columbus not offering community theatre like what I saw last night? There's no shortage of talent in this city, nor money, nor even spaces to rent and perform from, but nothing seems to work here. Many theatres close after short runs, or they put out lackluster shows, or they're run by people who just don't seem to care very much, or they were doing some great stuff, and somehow ran into financial problems and went kaput. I just don't get it.

I understand that community theatre isn't Broadway, and you're volunteering your time (oftentimes after a long day of work), but why can't it be the kind of quality work you'd see in a professional setting? I know for a fact many of the actors in Columbus are more than willing to work for free, just to get a chance to be on stage, and if there was a place where they knew they'd be pushed and challenged, and allowed to reach their full potential, and able to participate in something that's not necessarily Rogers and Hammerstein, I know they'd be on board in a second.

I, for one, am bound and determined to put my money where my mouth is on this one. (Okay, maybe not my money, cuz I'm poor, but at least my time and efforts.) Randy and I have had serious talks about starting our own gig, and I know of several others who are willing to be on board. I'm ready to do some edgy stuff, to tap into the different communities and arts that Columbus has to offer, and shock and amaze people with what can come out of our little cow town here.

Who's with me?

I'm learning to relax in my old age. Things that once drove me batty are now only driving me slightly nuts (batty is to slightly nuts as fingernails on the chalkboard are to a that annoying guy in Chipotle who won't chew with his mouth closed). One thing in particular that used to drive me particularly batty is when people fuck up (and yes, I said "fuck"...close your eyes, Heather :)) certain turns of phrase. Now, I just think it's amusing...for the most part.

For example, the other day a patient came in and told us she got her wisdom teeth out on "Valentimes Day". Ah, yes, St. Valentime, the patron saint of watches...LOVE that holiday. Another notable "eff" up (that was for Heather) is the word "immaculant", as in, "Her house was so clean...everything was 'immaculant'". Or the phrase, "I like her, she seems 'generally' nice" instead of genuinely nice. Apparently, this person is "more or less" nice, or perhaps just "approximately" nice.

Some of my favorites, though, are as follows...and get ready to laugh your asses off, as I do mine (well, not really...I need to laugh a bit more, obviously). My friend at work likes to say "bath it", as in, "That cat is really dirty. You oughta 'bath it'". This phrase has become so dear to me, that I like to slip it into conversation normally now. I think it has a nice ring to it. Another friend used to say that she "Clun the microwave with Windex." Past tense... It would make sense, though, if you think about it: clean, clane, clun. "I will clean the microwave today, I'm claning it now, and I clun it yesterday!"

I clun the cat by bathing it.

My absolute, hands down, mac-and-cheese-over-16-oz.-sirloin-any-day favorite, that really gets me every time (yes, laughing in the library now, to disdainful stares) is the one Jen used the other day: "Don't lawyers sometimes do cases for free? You know, pro boner?"

This needs no further comment.

So yes, I used to be one of those people that would hear these things and then work the actual word into the next sentence while emphasizing slightly the correct pronunciation. ("Yes, her house is quite immaculate!") But now I realize that people aren't going to like you any more for helping them with their grammar, nor will they thank you at some English Language awards show, nor will they probably change their speech patterns just because you've decided that your life goal is to rid the world of St. Valentime. In fact, they might respect you a little more in the long run for not being so nit-picky...

At least, that's what supposably ought to happen...

Let's face it, folks, our friend has a brand new pile of pictures, and we're sorting through them pretending to be interested, but really only looking for pictures of ourselves.

The Pip has an itchy ear and makes sad moaning noises when he scratches it.

Moving a house is hell...moving an office is hell with the BeeGees on repeat.

The guy next to me at the library was wearing hideously short shorts. There should be a law against this, or I should at least be able to shoot a rubber band at his junk.

Only random thoughts for today...sorry, I killed creativity in favor of just putting something out there. Please forgive me. Or at least buy me a beer.

Just when you think life is really grand, someone kicks you in the balls...only I don't have those, so they just go straight for the heart instead.

It kind of makes me wish I had balls. I hear that although getting kicked there is painful and nauseating and you get this salt taste in your mouth, the pain eventually goes away. They even have this thing called a "cup" so that one may attempt to protect ones boys, but your heart, well, there's a ribcage and all, but some people are so adept at getting around that that before you even realize what's happening, your heart's been ripped out, thrown on the ground, been stomped on and is making squishy wet noises all over the sidewalk (it makes squishy wet noises because, unfortunately, it's still painfully pumping away).

A while ago, Dale made the comment that I seemed extremely "resilient". At the time, I wasn't sure how to take the comment...was I bouncy? Did my skin seem to be able to be stretched but then quickly spring back into place? I soon learned he truly meant it in a good way: that I seemed like I could handle difficulty well, that I had a good head on my shoulders, and that I was mind-shatteringly hot (okay, the last one was my addition.) It was eerie then, too, that he'd say that, because, unbeknownst to him, I was going through some pretty heavy stuff emotionally. (Of course, I still couldn't resist pretending like I was horribly offended by what he said, and it became a bit of a joke between us, except that he usually ended up crying. Lawyers are weird.)

Then yesterday, the heart ripping thing happened and I was all weirded out and confused (as one usually is when a major organ is violently removed without the involvement anesthesia or surgical tools) and not myself and sad and melancholy and mind-shatteringly hot (woops). So, coincidence or no, this morning I get this e-mail from Dale that says, "I got this today and thought of you for some reason." You see, Dale gets daily "learning" e-mails (nerd!) and they contain scholarly words and definitions (apparently, the blood-sucking business isn't too busy these days and lawyers have to fill their time with "education"). He forwarded the whole thing to me.

Today's word, oddly enough, was "resilient".

I chuckled to myself as I read it (but soon stopped when I noticed the dirty look from the lady next to me at the library), and shook my head at life's little ironies. Then, finally knowing that I could, I picked up my heart--I think by it's aortic valve--and inserted it back into it's chest cavity and pieced the bones and skin back together. I had to use a little tape to hold it all in place, (the library lady felt bad and lent it to me) but so far, it's staying intact, and it's glad to be back in its rightful place, with its owner feeling stronger (or at least more at peace, and thankful for good friends, and mind-shatteringly...well, you get the picture) for the experience.

There might be a scar, but it'll heal nicely, I think...

"What is it with you and penises lately?!"

Oh, Diana Kay...how you can sum up so eloquently one girl's life, I'll never know.

So, Boob Grabber was back the other day. You can imagine my excitement when I saw his name on the schedule, and the warm glow I had for my friends when they cackled and made me work on the little bastard. Actually, he wasn't too bad at first. He was listening pretty well and cooperating, but I had to keep telling him to "Put your arms down." (As a general rule of thumb, when working in a patient's mouth, it can become rather difficult to do your job when the patient has a limb in front of the orifice you're seeking to modify.)

Well, finally, I realized it had been several minutes before I had to (very nicely AND patiently) tell him to freaking put his arms down. Picture then, my extreme joy when I realized that his compliance was not the result of some newfound respect for me (or my boobs) but for a newfound respect for Mr. Winkles. Yes, folks, both hands were adequately occupied wrist-deep in his pants. Did Mommy say anything? No. Did my friends say anything? Unless you count painful laughter as a response, no. Did my boss say anything? Yes. He looked at our secretary (who had unwittingly walked into the situation...and was gazing, horrified, at the spectacle in front of her) and says, deadpan, "He learned that from me." To which I responded with convulsions of laughter and horror and maybe a little throw-up all at the same time.

Diana's comment, though, not only encompasses this most recent experience, but also the privilege I have of working on "Boner Boy", a fifteen-year-old who thanks me for my work with an enormous hard-on. And it's only with me...what I'm doing that the other girls aren't, I'm not exactly sure, but I really wish I knew SO I COULD STOP. The motto, "Some girls got it, some girls don't" is a hellish statement, designed for my profound nausea and embarrassment.

At least I never had to work on the guy who strategically placed his hat over his Jumping Jack and licked the fingers of the girl who was working on him. But I have had a creep say he wouldn't mind seeing me naked.

Funny how that comes up when you're torquing a wire.