The Closing of the Year

As 2005 comes to a close and the new year looms, it is time to tie up the loose ends I've left dangling here on the blog.

There was never a diagnosis for the ongoing medical issues, and the Water Nazi was relieved of duty when my temporary stint as Stage Manager came to an end.

If I cannot bring you comfort, then at least I bring you hope...

My roommate and I are dissolving our association to each pursue separate goals in 2006. In the mix, Delilah the cat was sent to the pound. Though I will not miss her personally, I hate that Joseph lost his dear pet and hope that someone with more patience than myself will give her a good home. In the meantime, Joseph's good home will be found aboard a posh cruise ship that will be visiting some of Earth's most beautiful destinations. Mine will be found for a time in my return to San Diego for an audition there.

The new car, iPod, and laptop were all purchased toward that end. The car to make the cross-country drive, the iPod to keep me company during it, and the laptop to relieve a great deal of frustration during the times my mother and I are both in the San Diego digs with designs on using the internet.

On the way to California, I will be stopping for gas only at well-lit stations, primarily during the day.

We all must learn from small misfortune count the blessings that are real...

The hooded and bloodied man who attempted to steal my new car is, as far as I know, still behind bars. I've heard nothing since the preliminary hearing, but enough evidence was presented there to bind him to a grand jury. His spree began in the Vanderbilt area where he -- unreleased -- exited the hospital, stole an idling Domino's Pizza delivery vehicle, and sped into Bellevue where he crashed into a car carrying a mother and her two small girls, fortunately without major injury. He fled the scene to Kroger, where he approached a girl who immediately ran from him when he asked for her keys. Then he found me at the BP, where I flummoxed him and had him apprehended. All four victims were able to positively identify him. He was additionally accused of driving on a suspended license and charged with his 4th-plus DUI. Within the next 6-8 months, I may be subpoenaed to appear in the criminal trial.

My old car, the Dodge which refused to be sold to a needy buyer, has been freed from its graveyard parking spot. It was given freely to someone with the means to tow it away and given new life. It is running again and, I hope, making someone very happy.

The rain I've missed so much while gone from Nashville has not been cooperative since my return to it. It seems to rain now only at night while I am asleep or, more inconveniently, driving. I'm still holding out for a bang-up thunderstorm.

And I'm only weeks away from boasting a year smoke-free. Almost completely. There have been cheats in certain company, but there is a vast difference between having a few cigs over a beer occasionally and having a pack every day, under any circumstance.

I'm still packing a few more pounds than I'd prefer, but it's a fair trade for the workout I gave up in late night hacking and coughing. I don't miss that; though I'm reminded of it currently by way of a nasty sinus infection that settled in just in time to greet Brian's return from Florida. Hiya, honey.

Brian once told me that the life of a traveling actor was crazy. It'd be tough, he said, but we'd figure it out. That was when he was the only one traveling. In 2005, with both of us traveling -- each gone 20 weeks or more, not always overlapping -- we spent precious little time together. Now that he's got Nashville work lined up for early 2006 and I'm the one leaving town, will figuring it out become that much harder?

The next year holds a lot of questions, and 2005 is almost gone.

But all in all, it was a pretty good year.

This is a time to be together
And the truth is somewhere here
Within our love for people
At the closing of the year

-- Wendy & Lisa, The Closing of the Year, Toys Soundtrack

He Knows When You Are Sleeping

From "Two and a Half Men" this week:

Alan's new Martha-Stewart-esque and wee bit psychotic girlfriend jumps out of bed on Christmas Eve, realizing that she's forgotten to put cookies out for Santa Claus.

Alan: "You're not serious?"
Girlfriend: "Of course. If you don't give Santa cookies, he puts coal in your stocking and doesn't leave you any presents."
Alan: "So... you believe in the vengeful, Old Testament Santa Claus."

Beautiful.

I Want My Mouse Back!!!

Okay... here's how I hate the new Dell.

I'd just written a lenghty post, a brilliant allegorical piece of wit and wisdom. Hey, you'll never get to read it now; prove me wrong. It was brilliant, I tell you, brilliant! BUT... the stupid laptop has an ultra-sensitive thumbpad, and I must have -- oh, I don't know -- fluttered somewhere above it. My page, and a couple hours writing, were lost to a sudden attack of unchosen web surfing. Blast you, Dell thumbpad!

This is where we growl. Loudly. GRRRRR!

Transmission Received

Roughly 10 years ago, I bought my first new car. More accurately, my first new car was bought for me as a graduation gift. Five years of sleeping in late and writing a few papers were rewarded with a degree, national honors, and a 1995 Dodge Avenger. Great gig, college.

At the time, CD players were on the cusp between being an add-on option and becoming standard equipment in new cars, but as it happened, my new Avenger had one. I, on the other hand, was on no such cusp; almost everything I owned -- a rather large collection -- was on tape, and at the time, I had no way to convert that stuff to CD. I became determined to find a way to play my tapes in the car.

Now, most people had the opposite problem: they had plenty of CDs but only tape players in their cars. Those folks bought portable CD players with cassette adapters and got along quite nicely, despite the jumble of cords that extended from the player to the cigarette lighter (at the time, there weren't extra "outlets") and to the cassette machine. There was, of course, no such adapter to play cassettes through a CD player, but there was something better. For about $20, one could buy something called a "SoundFeeder," a small, low-power transmitter that, connected to an audio device, would broadcast it to an available FM frequency. It was marketed to remove the jumble of cords from CD players, but it solved my tape problem quite nicely.

Over the years, as my music collection became more digital, I found other uses for the transmitter. As portable TVs and VCRs became popular, I would feed that audio through my radio. In terms of constant use, at a cost-to-use ratio of $2 a year over 10 years, that chunky, little, black SoundFeeder is one of the best buys of my life.

Fast forward.

At this Sunday's matinee, a cast member placed his cool, little, white iPod in the girls' dressing room so that we could hear a David Sedaris bit broadcast through the radio there. His version of the SoundFeeder, made for iPod, is called iTrip. Girls in the room oohed and aahed.... How was this possible? His iPod playing on the radio? Crazy, man. Magic!

I feel so old. Or are they so young?

Meanwhile, I can still boogie when I hear Cheryl Lynn warble "To Be Real" on my jambox -- yes, jambox -- thanks to an old SoundFeeder and a new iPod: a bit of technological archeology spanning 4 decades in a one-foot space. And I like it!

Whippersnapper!

Eine Kleine Nacht Mucus

The show opened this weekend... but I've told you that already. Despite my pre-opening fears, audiences have been receptive; but though Friday and Saturday performances went well, Sunday was not the best show for me. I felt groggy and distracted and on 3-second delay through the fog.... Fortunately, the promised reviewer did not arrive for that performance, though a group of friends did.

Since Sunday, I've been sick, and it's only getting worse. Tonight, waiting tables, I was losing my voice. Tomorrow, I will work a double. On Thursday... well, the show must go on. On Friday, we'll break her down, and the rest of the weekend, in case you don't know, is Christmas.

Christmas?!? This weekend?!? Really?!? Yipes! Shopping, shopping... what is that, again? AAAUUUGGGHHHH!

So, excuse me if my dry spell continues.... when the season and the sneezin' are over, I'll be back in blogger form.

Until then... could you pass me a tissue?

The Nashville Road Mafia

You won’t believe me. Not if you know me. Not if you know my sense of direction and my failing knowledge of Nashville. You won’t believe me at all.

After the show last night, the cast celebrated a successful opening together at MAFIAoZa’s, a little neighborhood pizzeria/pub on 12th Avenue which sponsors the printing of the New York Times Crossword puzzle in our local weekly fish wrap. As if that weren’t enough to give it buku points, it’s also an excellent restaurant which I now highly recommend. In fact, I insist on accompanying you when you go. After a tasty bit of garlic bread, I shared an excellent pizza with Linda and coveted Claire’s Shrimp Alfredo, which I’m sure had a name like “Vinny” or “the Don” or some such in keeping with the excellent theme. Perfect.

There were a lot of us: the 15 cast members, numerous husbands, various wives, our director, producer, and stage manager... we were quite the crowd. And as such, there was much shuffling and scooting and making room for new arrivals. Enough that, as I grabbed my things to leave a few hours later, I failed to notice that something had not shuffled and scooted with me: my scarf. I left without it.

Now, I am not a misplace-r. I very rarely put something down without knowing exactly where to find it when I want it later, and when later arrives, I very rarely forget to pick up something I’ve put down. Keeping track of my things is something I’m very good at. Or, more accurately, it’s something I’m almost pathological about. So, though all of this is true, leaving the scarf behind is NOT the part of the story I’m asking you to believe – accidents do sometimes happen; especially when there has been bourbon involved. No, what I’m asking you to believe is something quite different. But to get to that part, I’ve got to back up a bit.

See, I don’t know a thing about Nashville. I can get to work, to the grocery store, and to a few random other places where I’ve done a few other random things, but for the most part I’m clueless. So when the cast announced it was going to MAFIAoZa’s last night, I knew I would have to follow someone there – not for lack of TRYING to get the directions from someone, but for my utter incomprehension of what they were telling me when I did. A flurry of unfamiliar road names and landmarks were thrown at me and I was lost before I left the theater. I would have to follow someone if I was going into the unknown wilds of Nashville. But how would I get home?

If you know me, you should be amazed to be reading this. Because this post is the evidence that I made it home. Alive. Alone. Without a navigator. But wait, it gets better. Remember the scarf? I wanted it back.

Okay, any real Dr. Who fan would tell you that my scarf is not accurate. It is not long enough and the colors are all wrong. They’d be right. They’d also probably be polishing their Star Trek communicators, quoting Monty Python, and hoping to kiss a girl someday, but they’d be right. And I’d tell them that I don’t care, because I love my long, wrong, homemade scarf just the way it is, so there. And, by God, I was going to have it back. I called the restaurant the next morning. They had it. And I had a mission.

After working a kiddie matinee in Bellevue, I determined that I would find MAFIAoZa’s -- and my scarf -- without help. I sorted through the information I’d heard the night before in my head. A road that I do know, I was told, becomes one of the roads I don’t, then it crosses another one of some importance and, well... I’d go from there.

I did it.

I did it, I did it, I did it! (Just don’t ask me how.) But wait, there’s more! Last night, I determined that I’d been in that area at least once before. A music store I’d visited last year, it seemed to me, was somewhere nearby. Once I had my scarf in hand, I decided to test my theory. I turned off the route I’d carved to the restaurant and drove only about a block before I saw it: Corner Music. I’d been right. I’D RECOGNIZED THE AREA. We’re talking major breakthrough here, people; work with me! This was big. ‘Cause now I’d have to carve a new route home.

And I did that, too.

WOO-HOO!

Now that some of those crazy directions I was given last night make sense, I’ve learned a little something: I’m not good at this stuff, but it ain’t all ME. Nashville is one wacky place in which to drive around. There must have been a government conspiracy – a covert contract with street sign manufacturers. They had to keep busy, and before long the city had to find a place on 8 different roads for 80 different road names, with the effect that the name of the road you are on depends on which side of which intersection with which other name-changing road you are on. I’m sure there’s a system to it in there somewhere. One that is neatly hiding the body of an old politician's ex-wife.

I’m afraid to say much more. ‘Cause at least I made it home alive. This time.

Or maybe that’s the MAFIAoZa’s talking.

Be An Elf

"Oh, be an elf... for Santa at the Pole. Be an elf, oh, be an elf... it's a very noble goal! If you work hard and never stop to be the best that you can be, then you can be a Christmas elf... just like my friends and me."

That's one of the songs from our annual kiddie Christmas show, in progress as I type, and I have worked hard as a Christmas elf for the last three years, filling styrofoam cups with caffeine-free Sprite and wondering what each day's fiasco will be. Are all the crayons broken? Will we run out of letters to Santa? Did a school bring too many kids, so that some are without seats? Are we serving only soda water because we've run through all of the Sprite syrup? Is a child vomiting, crying, or stomping cracker crumbs into the carpet?

Or will a busload of children be stuck in traffic, keeping the show from starting on time when while merry elves fret about making it to their second, more adult, jobs on time.

Yep, that's the one today.

After the show today, if it does not run too late, I will visit a local radio station to record the theatre's radio spot for the January show, The Foreigner.

And after that, I'll drive my roommate back to this theatre, where he will serve patrons at the evening (adult) show.

And after that, I'll drive myself to another theatre, where a cast of fairies, rather than elves, will open a show about Sleeping Beauty, then celebrate their opening night at a local restaurant.

It's a long day, barely started, but child's play to us elves.

"We're the Christmas elves and we're here to say..."

Um, side note: elves shouldn't rap.

Tech Goddess... Of Sorts

It is best to blog about some things before time removes the funny. This morning, I've already missed.

You see, a friend of mine recorded her own Christmas album at home to give as gifts this year. It's a nice solution to her limited income, so I've refrained from telling her that "homemade gifts" rank very high on the list of things people do NOT want for Christmas -- right after a donation to charity made in their name. (And you thought the phrase "Happy Holidays" took the Christ out of Christmas!) Today, I am converting her magnetic tape to digital format.

I am not engineering her project -- she's done that -- I am simply putting the album on CD rather than tape. So, after setting the appropriate levels, I hit the "record" button and walk away whistling "Go Tell it on the Mountain," her first selection. My only fear is that she's recorded her album on a 90-minute tape and my CDs will collect only 80 minutes of material (note to industry professionals: a little parity, please?), so roughly 75 minutes later, I check in on the project to make sure that no song will begin without room on the CD to end. I don my headphones and listen in...

"I-I-I-I-I'm coming up, so you better get this par-tay star-te-ed"

Er....

It is Kimberly's voice, but it most assuredly ain't a Christmas song. A wee befuddled, I let the song and the tape play through, not bothering to effect a clean cut -- the seasonal effort had obviously ended a few tracks earlier. I laughed and laughed. Kimberly, I thought, had reused an old tape. It was the old stuff playing through at the end of her Christmas album now. Cute. I made plans to buy her a bulk eraser for Christmas and planned my blog post. Then I set up for my second promised conversion: her demo tape.

As I pulled out the Christmas album, I noticed it was almost completely rewound. Odd, I didn't do th.... Oops. Heh, heh. Duh.

It wasn't Kimberly's error at all. It was mine. See, Kimberly's demo is recorded on Side Two of her Christmas Album. She needs two separate discs, one per side. But, uh, well, my cassette deck has that auto-reverse function and, er, ah, it must have flipped. See, I forgot that when one works with TAPES, 90-minutes translates to FORTY-FIVE minutes per side.

A few scant minutes sure changed the funny on that one! Now I'm grabbing my cane, hobbling over to my rocking chair, and reminiscing about the good old days when knowing exactly how much time was on a tape was second nature. "Ya shee, shunny, back in d'day we yoo-sh'd to yoo-sh di-sh tape for everything, and we tawt it was GOOD! Now, be a ni-sh boy and bring your granny her tee-sh, will ya?"

I've (ahem!) disabled the auto reverse function.

Take two....

Dude, Part Dude... Deux

So, dude, I got the Dell. And at the moment I am skeezing wireless access from a nearby WiFi (there's a McDonald's across the street) to write this post backstage during the first act of Sleeping Beauty, while my castmates sing, off key, songs of their immediate creation in the green room. Sadly, there are no earplugs to be found nearby. (Kidding, guys, you know I love you.) But here we all are. Finally.

It is Hell Week. We've moved into the Darkhorse Theatre and we open on Friday. As ever, there is much tweaking to be done as we add lights and costumes to a show that hasn't had even one successful run-through during its many weeks of rehearsal. Tonight, in fact, may be the first time that the entire cast has assembled in one place for a run. I'll refrain from commenting on "professionalism". I'm just happy to be here. I do, at least, LOVE this theatre.

The monitors are not on tonight, so those of us currently offstage, downstairs, cannot hear the show. Where are we in this thing, anyway? Is it intermission yet?

I have only a few scenes in Act I; it's in Act II that I really have to be on my toes. In fact, I have a rather intensive costume change coming up, one that (the director will discover tonight) will be all but impossible to accomplish during the 3 lines of material written to cover my stage absence. Fun, fun.

A prince has arrived in the dressing room. The prince who ends the first act. It must be intermission. Time to go.

More soon, 'cause... dude.

Dude!

Okay, bear with me. I have very little time. See, I'm borrowing a computer right now and I've got about 5 mintues before I've got to go, so I won't get to tell you WHY I've got to borrow this computer except to say that every computer I own (four at last count) is a piece of ... is kaput.

I also won't get to tell you about the preliminary hearing for my attempted carjacker, his spree, or the extortive parking ticket I received while doing my civic duty.

And I won't get to tell you about the cool deal I made for a new iPod, loaded with my father's playlist while I wait for a computer to iTune up to it.

And, oh yeah, I'm waiting for a new computer. Dude, I'm getting a Dell.

Of course, I'll barely have time to tell you how sneaky Dell is. 'Cause, see, they don't tell you, when you buy their product online, that when you click "3-5 day shipping" that means it'll take 3-5 days to get to you once they feel damned good and ready to put it in a box a month later. No, they don't tell you THAT until they confirm your order.

So... bear with me. Until the UPS truck arrives at my doorstep (hopefully more reliably than San Diego's Postal Petey) sometime mid-month, posts will be few and far between.

But OH, will I have plenty to say when it gets here!

Until then... here are some subjects. Talk amongst yourselves.

A) No one should be allowed to own pets or children before they own their own home. With a big yard. Soundproofed.
B) Badly written and poorly directed shows should come with either hefty paychecks or mind-altering drugs.
C) Your parents never bought you a pony. How does that make you feel?

Note: Comments received in answer to "C" are subject to an Our Time is Up, That'll Be Ninety Dollars, Thank You fee. Plus tax, tags, and title.

Thanksgiving Adventure

“Give me your keys and nothing will happen.”

I had come from rehearsal. It was a little after nine, I had filled the tank, and these were not words I expected to hear at the well-lighted gas station.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me your keys and nothing will happen.”

Now he’d said it twice and there was no doubt: he was trying to steal my car. From me. At a gas station close to home. Surreal.

Stalling, I pretended I had not quite heard him and had not understood. I asked him to repeat the phrase a third time, which he did, while I looked him over and considered my options. He had his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and had not removed them, even as I stood playing dumb; I could not know, but I guessed that he did not have a gun. I looked at him and said sincerely “I am sorry, sir, but I don’t understand you.” Then I turned away from him and walked steadily to the convenience mart, mouthing “help” to the clerk in the store ahead of me and fearing sudden moves from the robber-to-be behind.

Entering the store, I repeated the phrase. The rest happened quickly. The night manager, who I knew to be a bit of a jokester in lighter situations, sprang into action. As soon as I cleared the entrance, the doors were locked behind me. As he called the police, I clicked my key fob to lock the car doors. None of us had seen where the robber had gone, but customers who continued to visit the pumps, unaware of the lockdown, came and went peacefully. When a rather impatient woman claimed, with a two-snaps-up-in-a-circle attitude, that she had seen him walk away, the doors were unlocked so that she could exit. As she did, it occurred to me that I might have locked my car too late: the sweat-shirted man might have climbed into it when I walked away. I decided not to test the theory and waited inside until the police arrived.

The wait was awkward and the store had resumed normal operation by the time the robber reappeared. Although I knew that the night manager had seen the guy – he’d given the police an accurate description -- I could not help blurting “that’s him!” upon his sudden appearance. The doors were quickly re-locked as he continued toward them. If he had been waiting in the shadows for me to come out, he had made the wrong decision. The police were right behind, and soon had him in custody.

When I stepped outside, I was surprised to find no less than eight police vehicles in the parking lot, lights flashing. Because nothing had actually been stolen and no one hurt, I thought it a bit excessive. I was soon informed, however, that they had been looking for this man for some time and he was wanted on several felony counts.

My mind turned morbidly to a recent shooting in the area. A shooting that had, in fact, taken place in an apartment complex directly behind that gas station. Whatever his crimes, my car, with its full tank of gas, would have made a nice getaway for him had I given it to him.

While the officer took my statement, I was surprised when she called my actions “smart.” I had expected a reprimand. I had expected her to tell me that one should always give a robber exactly what he asks for, and I told her so. She answered “criminals don’t expect you to say ‘no’.” If there was more to the thought, it was left unsaid.

I was asked to prosecute and I agreed. This morning I received a phone call: my subpoena. On Monday I will meet the D.A. and testify.

Between now and then, I can think of plenty of things to be thankful for.

Have a safe and happy holiday.

Several Hundred Years Ago and One Hundred Years Later, One Month and One Day from Today

Did somebody say 100 years' sleep? Sounds great, where do I sign up?

Oh right, I already did. As the queen, I fall asleep right along with everybody else in the castle until that noble (or not so noble) prince comes to wake the princess. Funny, she's already woken once this week and I don't feel the least bit rested.

Anyway, if you'd like to come see what's so untold about this age old tale:
Fri/Sat, December 16 and 17 at 7:30
Sun, December 18 at 2:30
Thurs/Fri, December 22 and 23 at 7:30
Darkhorse Theatre, 4610 Charlotte Ave., Nashville.

Tickets are $12 at the door, $10 in advance.
You can buy them through me or call 615-423-5304 for reservations.

A word of warning: parental guidance is suggested for children 13 and under due to implied sexual content. That's the legal disclaimer. Frankly, though, if your kid can cut through the implications, I'd like to meet him.

Mono-logue Dia-tribe

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started out from Nashville, sport,
Aboard this acting ship….

You may have heard about them, these hideous things that directors require actors to do to get a part. They are called monologues. And they are a most cruel and unusual punishment. Unnatural. Torture.

You see, usually, when an actor takes the stage he is acting WITH someone else. He is talking to another character who shares the stage and he is afforded the luxury of directing his comments TO someone and making eye contact. Not so with a monologue. Here he takes the stage alone and must find a way to be personable to the wall behind the auditors’ heads.

Usually, when an actor takes the stage, he is performing before a friendly audience that expects to enjoy the diversion he presents them. Not so with a monologue. Here he is performing before a panel of judges looking for flaws. While he talks to a wall. Making no eye contact.

Most auditors know that this is a ridiculous system and a barometer of nothing. They are therefore, I believe, sadistic little creatures who love to watch us squirm.

Still, every so often one must poke the sharp stick into one’s eye for the privilege of telling one's personal Bea Arthur that one did, indeed, try to bullshit last week (it’s a History of the World reference, get over it). So, that’s what I did today.

Somebody shoot me.

Okay, this is the internet after all, so I feel the need to point out that I don’t mean that literally. However, if you have a tranquilizer gun, aim away.

With few days to prepare, I pulled the material I’d use for my two minutes of hell and began to memorize. No problems with that. Never any problems with that. I can memorize like nobody’s business. In fact, hand me a script and give me a day or two to learn lines and I’ll be a regular Kel-I-Am:

I do not flub them in the house
I do not flub them with a mouse
I do not flub them here or there
I do not flub them anywhere…

Except at the frickin’ audition.

Never in a performance, mind. It is only in auditions that I ever “go up,” becoming so nervous and involved in my own self-critique that I lose my place in the material. This looks unfocused, I need to look at somebody. I can't look at somebody, but this stinks, I need to look. Shit, I looked. Where was I? Like a deer in the headlights, my brain freezes, lost in the awkwardness of the situation. Much like Sam-I-Am convinces his rather Sneetch-like prey to love Green Eggs and Ham at the end of his story, I suffer a similar turnaround at the end of mine:

Auditor, if you will let me be,
I will try one monologue and you will see…
I will flub them in a box
and I will flub them with a fox
and I will flub them in a house
and I will flub them with a mouse
and I will flub them here and there
Say! I will flub them anywhere!

I hate monologues.

Now, of course, hating them the way that I do, I have a rather biased view of them, but, that said… I’ve never understood how putting someone in this unnatural acting position with a script that they’ve chosen as their own personal showcase proves anything. They could quite possibly have spent years in preparation with professional coaches to turn that scene into the one and only perfect performance they’ll ever give and be utterly incapable of creating one watch-able scene in the script the auditor is offering in the limited rehearsal time available to them, sans coach. How would you know?

Meanwhile, someone who might do a bang-up job with the actual script is sacrificed on the monologue altar.

Baah.

Today I died so that others might live. Then I went home and set about something at which I excel: cooking. Mmmm, good chili!

Despite the audition, my midday excursion was a good thing. I may not have produced chicken salad, but at least I wasn’t chicken shit – I went. And I enjoyed a pre-audition conversation with the Company Secretary. And best, I had the opportunity to make a welcome suggestion for a new class the company might offer: How to Do a Monologue.

Tomorrow I’ll start rehearsals for my next show with a theatre across town. Thank God for cold reading auditions!

To Whom It May Concern

To Anne-Geri and Beth: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for visiting last night after the show. I've been at wits end with boredom and it was so good to see you! We must do that more often.

To Brian: Do you know yet whether your current contract will extend the extra week, bringing you home right at Christmas? Perhaps we can arrange for some sort of hologram to take your place for those final performances, so that you can get your insurance week and still get your butt here to see me before you ride off into the Bluegrass State for the holiday.

To Larry: For the thousandth time, no! Look, I love the Predators just as much as you do -- well, maybe not QUITE as much, because you're one sedative away from a 12-step program -- but I am not going to the game with you on Thanksgiving. I will be having my a$$ kicked in Trivial Pursuit at my mother's house, suffering my brother's tremendous store of knowledge and merciless will to use it.

To Mother: I expect to be suffering my brother's merciless will to trounce me at all things Trivial at your house this year. If the turkey is going to be at his house, somebody should send me a memo.

To Chris and Kenny: Hey, guys! How's it going? Just didn't want to leave you out.

To Anyone Else Who Cares: Nice to see you. Thanks for stopping by.

To Anyone Else Who Doesn't: Don't you have some work to do?

Nothing

Do you ever find yourself in a rut? You leave the same house at the same time every day, going to the same job to hear the same people complain about the same things day after day, as days become months with nothing new to mark them. What I’d give for a wild night of air hockey, an M&M Blizzard, and some horrible straight-to-video comedy worthy of my own MST3K treatment.

Years ago, Kenny and I sat in a theater picking The Fifth Element to shreds. Help me, Obi Wan. What’s my motivation? I’ll be in my trailer. God, we had fun. Today, I can’t remember the last time I went to the movies. Or rented one. And damn it, there’s even a Wallace & Gromit movie out there!

Where went the days of playing pool, bowling, swimming at the docks, perusing the bookstores, buying too many CDs, and driving aimlessly? When did getting out become going alone? When did it get so hard?

Nothing can fill your insides, and when it does you have nothing to lose and nothing to live for. Maybe you feel like you are good for nothing.

Amen, brother.

Leviticus

At this time every year, my good friend Chris becomes a bit of a Scrooge as the beginning of the Christmas shopping season creeps ever closer to the autumnal equinox. He grumbles that before the pumpkins have been carved or the turkeys craved, seasonal jingles and cutesy green elves are ushering in a good will toward men that will be evidenced by contusions as otherwise sane mothers fight over the last Cabbage Patch Furby Elmo. He has a valid point. On the third month of Christmas, my true love gave to me… oh who the hell cares? Is it over yet?

Most people I know roll their eyes and sigh when they see the lighted trees in the hardware store in October, but in the fourteen years I’ve known Chris, retailers have never eased his pain and he’s never tired of grumbling about it. One grumble in particular is starting to ring a bell. And ask for spare change.

Okay, actually, The Salvation Army has nothing to do with this particular gripe, but hey, I liked the segue. No, it’s Chris’ argument for the official beginning of the Christmas retail season that has caught my eye. You see, many years ago, after successfully begging for a weekly column, I chickened out and handed the assignment to Chris, becoming in the bargain his editor. And an editor never forgets.

In Chris’ blog this week he wrote:

It's very simple. God, in his infinite wisdom, has granted us a means to tell when Christmas has begun. In the beginning, God created the Macy's parade and it was good (especially the Snoopy balloon...). And lo, the Lord said "let there be Santa at the end" and there was and it was to be the beginning of Christmas. I think that's in Leviticus. No one ever reads Leviticus so that's bound to be where it's at.

It was the Leviticus. Without the Leviticus, I might never have noticed. But I did. In 1999, Chris wrote:

Let me spell it out for those of you who still don’t get it. We have been provided a sign of the beginning of the Christmas season. Christmas does not begin until Santa Claus appears on the televised Macy’s parade. I think that’s in the Bible somewhere. Leviticus probably. No one ever reads Leviticus. It goes something like this:

And the Lord spake
and he sayeth unto the assembled masses
let not there be hanging of the Christmas wreath
until the time of which I speak
being the time unto which Santa Claus
shall come unto you all
via the Macy’s Parade.
And there was much rejoicing (yay).

Yes, Virginia, I still have the originals. And I agree. Christmas should take the holiday spotlight on the day after Thanksgiving, as it was once, isn’t now, and ever should be. Amen. But I don't think that's in Leviticus.

Now, I’m not claiming to have read it. Heavens no! But it’s probably the book of the Bible I’m most familiar with. Thanks, of course, to The West Wing.

In Episode 25, President Jeb Bartlet dresses down radio personality Dr. Jenna Jacobs (a small-minded Dr. Laura-esque figure whose Ph.D. in English Literature grants her the title “doctor”) for her public declaration that homosexuality is an “abomination.” I reprint the speech that flows forth here with due reverence but without permission. Don’t bother suing me; I’m broke already.

JACOBS: I don’t say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does.

BARTLET: Yes it does. Leviticus!

JACOBS: 18:22.

BARTLET: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. I wanted to sell my youngest daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She’s a Georgetown Sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be?

While thinking about that, can I ask another? My chief of staff, Leo McGary, insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself? Or is it okay to call the police?

Here’s one that’s really important, because we’ve got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you?

What’s particularly fun about this scene is that the original argument, which quotes Leviticus far more extensively, came from a letter written by Kent Ashcraft to Dr. Laura Schlessinger in 2000, which was posted on the internet and circulated widely via e-mail. (Lorimar Productions compensated Ashcraft for the use of it on the show, by the way).

an open letter to Dr. Laura

J. Kent Ashcraft
May 2000

Dear Dr. Laura,

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind him that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the specific laws and how to best follow them.

a) When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Leviticus 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

b) I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

c) I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Leviticus 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

d) Leviticus 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

e) I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

f) A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an Abomination (Leviticus 11:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

g) Leviticus 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

h) Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 19:27. How should they die?

i) I know from Leviticus 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

j) My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? (Leviticus 24:10-16) Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Leviticus 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help.

Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted disciple and adoring fan.

This is a man who has clearly read Leviticus. I’ve read this letter several times, looking for it, but I haven’t read (k) my local retailer hawks blinking lights and plastic trees before Santa appears at the Macy’s Parade, which is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 12:25. Am I allowed to shove eight tiny reindeer up his wazoo? I’m sorry, Chris, but I’m sure that if it were there, Mr. Ashcraft would have found it.

Try Deuteronomy.

Water Nazi

For nearly twenty years, I have been the poster child for Diet Coke. Wherever I go, I have a can of Diet Coke on hand. If you spy the signature silver can unhanded, you can be sure I am not far away. The Coca-Cola people should have me on retainer; I am a walking product placement. It’s the only thing I drink. Or, at least, until recently it was. Then I met the Water Nazi.

Before one of my co-workers caught wind of my recent medical difficulties, he was harmless enough. A nice guy, good for a couple of laughs every shift, and a friendly ear. But you’ve got to be careful what you tell to a friendly ear. Apparently, some information will turn Bartender Jekyll into Doctor Hydro.

Now, if my signature silver can is left unattended it will disappear. When I return, I’ll find in its place a glass of water. Water. Yee-uuck.

In my world, water is to be celebrated externally. Swim in it! Shower in it! Great stuff! Internally, though, I have a much more Wicked Witch of the West reaction to it. It burns! I’m melting! Aaaaaauuuuuggggggghhhhhhh. Keep it away from me, thank you very much.

Now I’ll grant you that my body’s extreme reaction to water is probably the proof of how sorely it needs it, but who wants logic at a time like this? I’m melting, for Pete’s sake! And Doctor Hydro over there is mincing his literary references and eyeing my pretty shoes. The bastard.

The problem is, my argument against water just isn’t strong enough to win this battle, and if I pour myself a new Diet Coke, he’ll just pour it out. So I drink the water. Ow! And I drink the water. Ouch! And I drink the water. Ooh! And I drink the water. Ah.

Ah? Crap. I think he’s winning.

When I finally get home to the Cape of Good Coke and eagerly pop the top, ready for The Real Thing, something is amiss. Suddenly, it doesn’t taste right. See, there’s all this… caramel… in it. When did that happen? And it’s all fizzy and stuff. What’s that about?

Damn you, Water Nazi.

I’m not giving up my Diet Coke anytime soon. But you can tell my agent that when the Coca-Cola people hang up on him this time, he doesn’t have to call back.

Define "Breakfast"

The author of the South Beach Diet noticed a "phenomenon" when dealing with overweight people. Many of them, he said, skip breakfast altogether. Especially women.

Now, as a woman who skips the traditional breakfast routine, I buy that. But I also question it. See, Dr. Agatston suggests that not having breakfast "allows blood sugar to drop and hunger to increase over the course of the morning, resulting in powerful cravings for a lunch that includes carbs of questionable value." Hmm. Let's think this through. Or more importantly, let's define "breakfast."

If a woman who works a regular 9 to 5 job wakes at 6 am, makes a pot of coffee, takes a shower, puts on her makeup, curls her hair, and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at 8, no one is going to argue whether or not she had breakfast, because she ate at the ungodly hour of 8 am. Ugh. I shudder to think of it.

If, however, a woman who works nights wakes at 10 am, makes a pot of coffee, checks her e-mail, posts a blog and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at noon, she is said to have "skipped breakfast" because she ate at an hour most others reserve for lunch. But has she not broken her fast, like the woman with the day job, within two hours of waking? Is there any significant chemical difference?

Unfortunately, as I am neither a medical doctor nor am I related to one, I have here the beginnings of a hypothesis I cannot test. However, following each woman through the day might provide some food for thought.

If Traditional Working Woman A eats breakfast while Night Owl B is still sleeping and has lunch while NOB eats breakfast, then the hour TWWA sets aside for dinner should be the hour when NOB eats lunch. It's not. At six or seven p.m., maybe later, our NOB is, in fact, settling down for her second meal, but she's also expecting it to be her last. Chemically it's lunch, but practically it's dinner. At the end of the day, NOB is one meal shy. By not eating another meal around midnight, she's beginning her fast too early rather than breaking it too late in the morning. Our NOB has skipped DINNER, not breakfast.

And yet any diet worth its lack of salt is going to tell her not to eat after 8pm. That a midnight meal is madness. Sheer madness.

Now, if TWWA wakes at 6 a.m., having had, let's assume, a full 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 10 p.m. That would make the 8 p.m. food deadline reasonable -- two hours before bedtime. If our NOB wakes at 10 a.m. after an 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 2 a.m. Midnight, then, should be a resonable food deadline -- two hours before bedtime. Why, then, doesn't her diet tell her so?

We've made dieting too difficult in this country. It's really very simple: eat less, do more. But four words don't sell books -- and everyone is trying to get around the "do more" part by manipulating the "eat less" arena. So, while there's still big money to be made waiting for America to wise up and get off its collective duff, can we at least streamline the language?

My breakfast may come at noon, but it's still breakfast, damn it. When you want to start slamming me for skipping dinner, I'll read your book.

Dead Dodge in the Middle of the Road

I sold my car last night. For one hour.

For one hour, everyone was happy. I had found a buyer, the buyer had found a deal, and the car had found a good home. Then I got the call. It wasn’t meant to be.

When my darling Dodge left her long-time parking spot last evening, she was an aging sports car with high-mileage and a tendency to ignore third gear. Reliable under 40 mph, she was to be a saviour for a nice guy facing a long run of extraordinarily bad luck. Instead, she left him stranded, waiting for a tow truck and a ride home.

When the Dodge returned to her long-time parking spot three hours and a hefty towing fee later, she was in the death throes. She had stalled on a slight hill and lost the will to restart. What fate awaits her now, I do not know, but I fear that now she may only be sold for scrap. And it breaks my heart. But not as much as the failure to help a good man who needed a lucky break does.

I’d still like to help. So, if anyone knows of a reliable car for sale under $1,000 in the Middle Tennessee area, let me know. And if you know anyone in the market for parts to a ‘95 Avenger – or the whole dead kaboodle – you can send them my way too.

She Lives

I've been home from San Diego now for seven weeks and I've spent five of those weeks working 80 to 90 hours. That schedule is, for me, coming to an end. Though for the next five weeks I will be running the nighttime performances and a few matinees of a show that's just opened, I will not be in daytime rehearsals for the show which will replace it next month. Instead, I will be across town rehearsing a show in which I've been cast.

That show is an original script based -- not loosely -- on the Grimm fairy tale Sleeping Beauty. As there is a paycheck and professional credit in a respected venue involved, I will refrain from additional comment, except to say that I will be playing the young beauty's mother.

Though I've been cast as a mother before, my fictional children have always been infants or actors older enough than myself to border on ridiculous. That this time I am of an age which could have truly borne the sixteen-year-old spindle-finding princess gives me pause.

Or, had different author invented a truly novel evil curse, paws.

Now THAT would be an original script! Instead of sleeping peacefully for 100 years, all inhabitants of the castle would be turned into bears who maul each other to death until a century later only three remain, eating porridge, when Little Red Robin Hood comes to steal the royal golden plates for the poor and... nah, it'd never sell.

She says while quietly copywriting the idea and never minding the inevitable Into the Woods comparisons.

But I digress.

In the last few weeks, I have accomplished very little personal business while attending to the business of the theatre, but when breaks did come, they wore robes of synchronicity and serendipity.

For example, in a schedule heavy with double-duty days, it was lucky that auditions for Sleeping Beauty fell early on a day I'd work only night and callbacks on a night when I'd work only day. I was meant to be there.

And when one of my few full days off left me eyeing a new Dodge (a story deserving an article of its own), it was a fortunate accident to discover still on the lot a Chrysler that hadn't been picked to play kickball in 2004. I shaved $8,000 from the sticker price and received more car than I'd budgeted for, brand spanking new.

Less sympathetic events in recent weeks have included bills for previous medical tests and appointments for future diagnosis, early morning barking alarms, late night mewing greetings, a pesky West Viriginian parking spot thief, and a surprise Californian suspension of my driver's license for failure to file Form FR1 with the DMV in the wake of April's accident -- as every out-of-state driver knows instintively to do, I'm sure.

Ignorance of the law is no excuse, yadda yadda. But really. Was there somewhere I could have picked up a Visitor's Guide to California Penal Codes? The trooper made no mention. One day I'll share a little federal interstate commerce rant I'm stewing on....

Until then... back to work.

Animal Warfare

More than once one these pages I have mentioned my cat. Well, THE cat. It’s not MY cat. The cat belongs to my roommate, who is now working on international waters. Without his cat. Which he left here. For me to keep. Temporarily. God love.

When I returned home from San Diego, I spent days cleaning up after mistress Delilah’s messy tantrums. Then I went back to work, leaving Delilah home alone for too many hours of too many days, allowing her to restart the protest. She is, all in all, a beastly creature. But in the few hours of the past two days I’ve spent at home, I’ve discovered that Delilah is not the only beastly creature I’m housing.

As I reached for something breakfast-like on Sunday, I discovered a small colony of ants on a reconnaissance mission in my cupboard. I promptly emptied the cupboard, gave the shelves an Ortho spritz, and went about my business. However, I should have remembered that ants come not single spies, but in battalions.

I was unaware when the attacked colony sent its tiny Paul Revere on a midday ride, but within minutes their militia staged an uprising. Full armies staged the Ant-merican Revolution. Better armed, I overtook them easily, but not without casualties. My entire dry goods flank was lost. Admiral Cheerios, Captain White Rice, and Lieutenant Cheese Nip fell in battle. They were good men all and will be missed.

Later in the day, as I reached for something jeans-like in the storage room, I found evidence of another mission. This time, the assignment had been handed to a more highly-trained battery of mice. Given the relative size of the basement holdings, the decision to send in a beefier army was a good one. Evidently, the mouse patrol left no Christmas sweater or faux fall leaf unturned, scouring every inch of the place and leaving tiny landmines in their wake. Whether the team has retreated to report to headquarters or has staked out a clever foxhole, I am uncertain.

In this new battle, my forces are questionable. Snappy traps have become verboten and using sticky paper to capture starving POWs is not a tactic to my liking. However, if to win the war I must play General, I have decided to draft Delilah into military service. Against this enemy, she may prove valuable.

If not, I’ll give her a dishonorable discharge.

Hail! To the Victors Valiant...

When I was growing up I was instilled with a certain love for the team colors blue and yellow. Okay, fine... call it Maize, Mustard, or Gold -- whatever you like. Coupled with Blue it's a winning combination.

Originally, I am from Michigan. My father is a U of M grad. Hence the early leaning toward the color combo. And, incidentally, toward the best college fight song out there. Hail! To the conq'ring heroes! Hail! Hail! To Michigan. Go Wolverines!

It is a tradition in Tennessee that every year long-known Michigan transplants gather in my father's home for a hot bowl of chili, a cold mug of beer, and the Michigan/Ohio State game.

The color red must not appear unless in the form of a soon to be masticated kidney bean.

I've never been much for football. I'm not a fan. Too slow. Too boring. Thirty minutes to run 10 yards? Yawn. Only two games a year catch my attention. One, the Michigan/Ohio State game. The other, the Super Bowl.

I am, however, a fan of hockey. I'm a relatively new convert. Though I'd seen bits of games on TV, I didn't know much about it until November 2003 introduced me to the game live and with an interpreter. I was hooked. Fast-paced and easy to understand with all the thrill of a good basketball game without basketball's constant inevitable scoring each time the ball crosses half court. One hundred points to 97? Yawn.

No, hockey has it right. The puck travels the length of the ice constantly, but goals are difficult to make. When made, they are worth one point each. And there's none of that play-stopping nonsense for commercial breaks.

In Nashville, the home team is the Predators, a blue and gold expansion team which has graced our city for a mere six seasons, making it to the playoffs in the sixth. Right before the league cancelled what would have been their seventh season. I was in the arena when they won their first post-season game against their most hated rivals, a team from Michigan. A foe wearing red. The Detroit Red Wings. Go Predators!

I'm sensing a pattern.

Tonight I was in the arena again as the Predators beat another red-clad foe in pre-season play. In a time when Katrina and Rita have devastated so many of our stately neighbors, it was not without irony that Nashville defeated the Hurricanes tonight. Four to two.

After the game, I stopped for dinner at my Neighborhood Grill & Bar. Sitting alone at a two-top waiting for an overpriced bowl of pasta, I looked up to the television set offering the night's sporting event -- a football game. The home team wore blue and gold. And the game was in San Diego. Go Chargers!

Though the opposition was in fact wearing red, the color was not predominant. And though the two teams are obviously competitors, I am not aware of any particular rivalry between them. But I'm sure that tonight there were many boos to be heard in Qualcomm Stadium when the New York Giants' quarterback took the field.

Tonight's game marked the first appearance in San Diego by Giants quarterback Eli Manning -- whom the Chargers selected with the first overall pick in the 2004 NFL Draft despite a three-Manning (Eli, father Archie, and brother Payton -- pro quarterbacks all) insistence that Eli would sit out a year before he'd play for San Diego. He was swiftly traded to the Giants.

Oh, to have been near enough the TV to hear what commentary must have accompanied that appearance!

Though there may only have been a trace of red in the Giants' uniforms tonight, the red in their faces after a solid blue and gold trouncing will be evident tomorrow.

To which I say, covering three states and two sports: Go Big Blue!

And Gold.

Another Op'nin, Another Show

I have spent the bulk of my life in theatre. On the stage or behind the scenes, I've performed just about every duty known to the art. The only things I have not done are (1) costume a show, though I have been a dresser and (2) direct. As we worked through the most recent opening, it occurred to me that directing may not stay on that list very long. I doubt, however, that I will ever attempt to costume a show. Though I have costumed myself in more than a few.

Ghost Story opened this Tuesday to a receptive audience. It's not the best original script, not even close, and on paper it's downright -- well, let's not bite the hand that feeds me -- but on its feet in front of an audience it plays. Two speedy hours of mindless fun. It's an easy show to run, barring a bear of a set change in the first intermission, and the cast is likeable. In some ways, it's a nice to be back in the booth.

In other ways, though, it's a nightmare. Long hours and constant demands can get wearing. More than once I've likened the position to being a House Elf, but I made the comparison to a particular friend for the first time Friday night and was amused to find a sock on my chair when I arrived on Saturday.

If the Harry Potter reference is lost on you, well, give me the address of the rock you're living under and I'll send you a book.

For good or bad, the sock does not actually release me from my duties. This weekend will provide two days off -- Sunday and Monday -- before I return to work on Tuesday and run nightly shows through next Sunday's matinee, only to begin rehearsing another show the following day, returning to double-duty days on the 4th. No rest for the weary, they tell me. But at least this weekend will provide some much needed distraction.

On Sunday I will travel downtown for a preseason hockey game which pits Nashville against Carolina. On Monday I will meet a former cast-mate for drinks at Opry Mills.

From then on, in the middle of 90-hour weeks, I might look forward a day off on Sunday the 9th and the next after that on the 23rd. Of October. Almost exactly a month from this writing. I must be crazy.

When that show closes, I'm done. I do not plan to go into the Christmas season on this schedule. I have too many other things to do before the first of the year.

That's a list for another time. If I can find the time to write it.

Hard for the Money

I've now been back in Nashville for two weeks and the second one was even busier than the first. I have returned to work at a local theatre, simultaneously stage managing two productions: the one in current nighttime performances and the one that will soon replace it, now in daytime rehearsal. On Saturday, I received my first paycheck in 8 months. After paying several hundred dollars to the IRS in April for last year's earnings, barely above the poverty level, I relish having so little income to claim in 2005. My clueless Uncle Sam won't be reaching deeply into my understuffed wallet this year, by criminy! On the other hand, neither will I.

Uncle be damned, it was nice to see my name printed next to a dollar sign again. So nice, I saw it thrice. Under two show contracts, I received rehearsal pay and performance pay, and was also paid for voicing the theatre's radio spots. When I last held the position as resident stage manager, these varied duties were the requirements of a salaried position. The salary was particularly humble, averaging little more than $3/hour as work weeks stretched toward 90 hours. As an interim stage manager now doubly contracted, I am ecstatic to be compensated more fairly. For the first time, the pay is worth the effort. Or, at least, for the first time the average does not fall below the federal minimum wage. Ultimately, however, Uncle Sam will have the last laugh. As a contract worker, I am effectively self-employed, and this April Sammy boy will look to me for the tax contributions of both the employer and the employee. In the last few years I have become, to the federal eye, my own business -- Me Inc., LLC -- and as such, I have been exceptionally lucky to find regular clients; particularly lucky to find one now as I am removing the dust from my long abandoned office. Tax or no tax, I prefer selling my temporary services to any more permanent position I've ever held.

Today I am enjoying a precious day off, my last until the 25th as the change-over will claim the theatre "weekend" (Sunday/Monday) between the Saturday closing of one show and the Tuesday opening of another. Explaining my work schedule during the transition has always been a difficult chore, but suffice it to say that there are very few holes in it during the coming week.

My contracts will keep me employed through the 15th of October. By that time, I hope to have accepted either a third stage managing contract or, better yet, an acting contract. Usually, in this theatre, my preferred contract is the unwritten one between a dinner patron and his server in the hours before a show begins (few payroll employers will compensate a good employee quite so well as the dining public will compensate a good server, but then few payroll employers are so constantly demanding), but while gas prices are dauntingly high, dinner theatre patrons are in short supply at remote establishments like ours. Waiters, however, are in endless supply and clamoring for work. Otherwise one of them, I count myself lucky to have found a management position open on my return; luckier still that the rest of the staff haven't been similarly cross-trained. Where I would have been underutilized on the wait schedule after a long absence, I am instead more gainfully employed than those who never left.

I'm sure to hear an earful soon.

In the meantime, as the 80-hour schedule resumes on Monday, I'm left with the familiar problem of having a paycheck in my possession but no time in my schedule to bank it. And banking it, since my return, has become more important than ever. In Nashville, during my absence, household bills mounted. In San Diego, I amassed impressive medical bills. In between, a girl's got to eat.

One way or another, I'll figure out the banking problem. I'm just happy to have something to bank.

Have I mentioned yet how lucky I am to have work?

If not, let me tell you. I am.

Random Thoughts: The Remix Album

I've been home from San Diego for one week today and that week has been a busy one, full of repair and maintenance, small reunions, and preparation for the busier week ahead. My thoughts are scattered into small corners, leaving these fragments visible:

 A service technician arrived yesterday to solve the apartment’s low water pressure problem and snake whatever line was causing the backup and leak in the hall. A carpet pro, called in to dredge the resulting lake, has left a large green fan blowing beneath an edge that's been pulled up, giving the wall-to-wall impression that my apartment is breathing.

 Sequestering the cat downstairs worked only briefly. It was not that she escaped her barriers, but rather that I could not escape her shrill cries for freedom. Her favorite perch, much to my chagrin, is one floor higher -- the arm of my upholstered chair in front of the window.

 The alien green goo at my walkway has been identified. A bag of kitty litter had been spilled en route to the apartment and bloated with rain.

 Patterns hoped broken after seven months' absence are familiar routines too easily fallen back into. With Tennessean friends too far south and Californian friends much farther west, Nashvillian camaraderie is, for me, limited to late-night commiseration with a strident co-worker over many a beer at the local dive bar – an oxymoronic situation that still beats the crap out of being alone.

 I'll meet one Tennessean friend and his lovely wife for lunch this weekend two hours from Nashville. Another distant Tennessee friend spends his weekends too often kayaking and had best clear a spot in his calendar soon!

 The show I’ll soon be running is not technically difficult regarding lights and sound, but it looks to be a properties nightmare. In a theatre where I’ve managed at least 30 productions, I’ve never before written so long a preset list. On the other hand, I had the advantage of mounting those other shows and may not have needed so thorough a list to assure the stage would be set properly.

 In San Diego, I quit smoking and became a morning coffee drinker, remembering my old morning show radio days. I should never have forsaken that gig for the theatre, but nothing less could have pried me away. And had I stayed I wouldn’t have had seven months to spend in San Diego at all.

 In Nashville, I am not a morning coffee drinker. I was, for a few days, tempted, but the cupboard offered only what I once thought were perfectly wonderful single cup brewing bags, much like tea-bags, which I now found lacking the robust kick and flavor to which I’d become accustomed. And though I enjoyed my brief San Diegan fling with java, I haven’t yet bought a bag of beans in Nashville. I’m not sure I’m ready for the commitment.

 Seven months in California proved to me that my body clock is a strange and wondrous thing, set to a time zone I’ve never visited. Because I work and socialize at night, I rise late: ten a.m. every morning, without fail. On the west coast, however, where the clocks register two hours difference, I woke at eight a.m. Every morning. Without fail. With unchanging indifference to the time zone, my internal clock remains true to itself. Which begs the question: assuming my own clock constant, if I really wanted to become a morning person and comfortably hold a day job, how far west would I have to move? And, having already gone about as far west as one can on this continent, what country would I be living in?

Until the next round….

Jiggety Jig

As I landed in Nashville Saturday afternoon, I became painfully aware that in my seven month absence I had become more familiar with San Diegan terrain than ever I had been with Tennessean turf. But however unfamiliar the cityscape, the landscape was heartening: lush green trees unlike anything California has to offer suggested the possibility of rain. I’ve missed the rains.

On the ride home my thoughts turned to the necessary business of my homecoming. I would soon have to return to work, having run through my savings in San Diego. There would be no cable, phone, or internet access at the apartment; my roommate had disconnected each when he accepted a job outside of Nashville before my return. Care of our apartment, and my roommate’s cat, were now left to me. Vacation was over; it was time to resume my responsible adult life. It was a reality too soon realized.

Outside the apartment, a heaping mass of alien green goo lined my walkway. Mix equal parts cement, large-curd cottage cheese, and green paint in a large bucket, tip the bucket and walk 20 paces and you’ve got the image. Inside the apartment, the scene was no prettier. My plants were dead, the air conditioner was on the fritz, and my roommate's cat, a 26-pound behemoth too fat to clean herself, had soiled every inch of our rented carpet. The cat, too, was caked in her own filth. Despite a friend’s attempts to spot-clean before my arrival, the devastation was total. Within the hour, I was firing up the SteamVac. In Nashville. With no air conditioning. Welcome home.

Usually, I’m an animal lover. Dogs, cats, llamas, don’t care. But Joseph’s cat is the exception. I’ve hated the noisy, smelly creature since day one. And I hated her doubly as I remembered that the deposit required to keep her had never been paid. When management comes knocking for damage monies at the end of our lease, I’m going to regret having ever put my name on that document.

Saturday and Sunday were given exclusively to cleaning the entry level of our three-story townhome: living room, dining room, and kitchen. By Monday morning I was seeing improvement, but I had not progressed to other floors when I called maintenance about the air conditioning. Charging the unit is outdoor work, so there would be no fear of anyone entering the apartment.

The matter was handled promptly and the apartment became slowly cooler as the day progressed. But when I quieted the cleaning machinery Monday night, I could hear the tell-tale drip from the hall closet. The AC unit inside the house was leaking now. A lot. I might have noticed the wet floor earlier had I not been soaking it myself with cleaning fluid at the time. While I had been busy not noticing it, it had been busy leaking through to the basement below. Where the cat had made the largest, smelliest messes. Where her food and litter live. Where she was hiding from the noise above. Filthy beast. Now I had a maintenance problem that would require letting someone into the house, and a house that required keeping them out.

On Tuesday, day four, I paid someone else to clean the cat while I moved my own cleaning operations downstairs. By the end of the day, I’d steamed the apartment from top to bottom. Though I’d managed to eliminate the worst of the stains, many refused to be removed. And the source of an unrelenting odor remains a mystery. Odds are, it’s coming from the furniture. Damned cat. But by Wednesday I was comfortable enough, considering the urgency, to call maintenance about the small lake forming in my hallway.

By Wednesday I had also moved my computer upstairs and had a phone line installed so that I could rejoin the online community through the blistering speed of dial-up internet access. I’m a wild woman, I know. That process, begun Monday, took three days to complete. Who knew that you had to request touch tone service? Or that having a name delivered to your caller ID box with the number costs a dollar more than having the number delivered alone.

Having my office upstairs, though, is already a great improvement. Now I’ll only have to venture into the cat’s domain long enough to feed her and clean the cat box each day; and she’s not allowed to enter mine at all.

San Diego... Nashville... Denver

All my bags are packed
I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin'
It's early morn
The taxi's waitin'
He's blowin' his horn
Already I'm so lonesome
I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go
'Cause Im leavin' on a jet plane
Don't know when I'll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go

Cysto No

For weeks now I've known it was coming. Today is the day. The day of the cystoscopy. I woke nervous and scared, not entirely sure what to expect. As I began an online search of the procedure -- and most importantly, the route it would take to my bladder -- I was greeted by an e-mail from a dear San Diegan friend who was thinking of me, hoping for the best, and waiting for an update. Thank you. I needed that.

Unsure whether I could eat in the hours before my appointment, I was pining for a cup of coffee when I replied that I would indeed supply post-oscopy information, but that it might be late afternoon before I was able. After all, I hadn't been given any pre-procedure instructions. I didn't know whether I would be under local anaesthetic for a quick look-see or given either general or spinal anesthetic for a more intensive search and snip. I had no clue what time I'd be getting home or what shape I'd be in when I got there.

Moments after I'd sent my reply, my friend wrote back, offering to leave work and take me to and from the doctor. It was an incredibly sweet offer, but I couldn't accept without knowing that I'd actually need the assistance. So I called the urologist's office. First, I wanted to know if I could have my coffee. Second, I wanted to know if I would need the offered transportation.

The receptionist/nurse who answered the phone was confused for a moment as she looked up my information. She didn't understand what I was asking. Why wouldn't I eat breakfast? Why wouldn't I be able to drive home? Today was my first visit with a new doctor. I wasn't scheduled for a cystoscopy today; today's appointment was merely a consultation. It would take about an hour, she told me.

WHAT?!? How is it that when I made an appointment for a surgical procedure no one at any point informed me that my appointment was not for that procedure at all?

I had planned to have my test results sent home to my Tennessean doctor, but now it seems there will be no Californian test. A consultation today would be a waste of everyone's time; I will not be here for a future appointment.

So thanks again to my sweet friend who offered to help. The call you inspired saved me the cost of an office visit, an hour's wasted time, and a load of frustration.

And I can have my coffee too!

Strange Twist of Fate's Ankle

I'm trying not to let it go to my head. No, no, do not kiss the ring. I'm checking my ego. You see, as soon as San Diego bestowed two community theatre acting awards upon me, it was inevitable: the folks in Nashville began to clamor for my triumphant return to the professional realm.

As a techie. (Ahem!)

The most recent in a line of Stage Managers filling the position I once vacated has quit. And the show must go on. Having held the post for a number of years, I am best qualified to fill in during an emergency. Having been unemployed for seven months, I am eager to receive a paycheck. And so I will return to the land of Dixie before the week is out.

At this Nashville theatre, unlike any other I know, the title “Stage Manager” is all-encompassing. The one to whom it is attached is required to be the entire tech crew: hanging lights, locating and editing sound cues, replacing props, controlling special effects, cleaning and repairing the set, operating light and sound boards, announcing time calls, herding the cast, maintaining equipment, and the list goes on. Even on-the-spot costume repair and medical treatment fall into the Stage Manager’s purview. In fact, in a theatre where the “magic stage” is a 15x15 set that lowers from its second floor home to its first floor audience, the Stage Manager is an elevator operator and maintenance man to boot. Though it is a necessary job, it is a demanding and thankless one that few people hold for more than a year. It does not take a newcomer long to become disgruntled. It takes him only a bit more time to call it quits. But when he does, I receive a phone call. Please, please, pretty please….

Now, while I greatly appreciate the San Diegan praise for my work, work done here has been performed outside of the professional arena. Which is to say I ain’t been paid in a while and any offer of a paycheck when I get back to Tennessee sounds pretty good, even if I have to be behind the scenes to earn it. So, while another naïve college graduate is sought to unwittingly sell her soul for professional experience, I’ve agreed to temporarily reclaim the helm of my old tech booth.

Of course, in the Fates’ plaything that is my life, as soon as I agreed to hide once again behind the scenery, I received two offers of potential work in front of it: one a personal audition invitation from a director here in San Diego, the other a callback for a show at the very theatre where I’d just agreed to stage manage in Nashville, and both extraordinary in their content and timing. The best unbidden opportunities always seem to visit when you cannot greet them. I cannot audition in San Diego because I’ve agreed to return to Nashville, and I will not get the acting job in Nashville because my services may be needed in the tech booth. If I were to be cast before a new SM was found, the show could not go on.

The Fates have a droll sense of humor.

But I’m willing to give them credit where it’s due: at least they’ve provided a paycheck. Feeding the ego is nice, but feeding the budget is more important.

And the Aubrey Goes To...

At the 40th Annual Aubrey Awards and Celebration held this Sunday at the Courtyard by Marriott hotel in Old Town San Diego, I was presented with the Aubrey Award for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy for the 2004/2005 season.


Awarded by ACT San Diego, a non-profit organization founded in 1964 to improve the quality of community theatres throughout San Diego County, the Aubrey represents the best performances spanning from northern Escondido to southern Chula Vista. Using a standardized judging sheet, traveling judges grade performances on a 10-point scale. To be nominated, a performance must have scored 8.0 or better. To win, well, that process was undisclosed. However, attendees were informed that most winners this year had been judged 9.0 or better. Despite my hopes that it would be, I was shocked to hear my name called -- and even pronounced correctly -- in the Lead Actress category. The surreal experience of accepting that award is still sinking in. But that's a story for another time. For now: they like me, they really like me.

And though I told you not to hold your breath waiting to see a picture of this award on my blog, I'll thank you now for crossing your fingers.

Ultra-Lite. Sans the Aircraft.

I have a good friend who’s a beer snob. The worst kind of beer snob. The rookie beer snob. Chris (who knows I love him anyway) will tell you himself that he hated beer for years... until somebody handed him a Guinness. Yep, Guinness. As if the world needed another Guinness snob. Lord, help us all. And hide the Miller Lite.

The shiver that just ran down Chris’ spine at the mere mention of a light beer was palpable across 2,000 miles.

Me, I’m no snob. When I drink, it’s usually whatever comes to the table in a pitcher with enough mugs to go around. But if I’m in a position to order my own brew, I prefer not to have to chew it. Light, crisp, mass-produced American swill is just fine with me. My wallet appreciates it, too. Although it’s usually Bud Light that’s tapped into a sharable container, it’s always Miller Lite that’s ordered in a bottle meant for me.

Until recently.

As I was fighting the worst of the weight gain that came with giving up my Marlboros (seven months ago now) and becoming increasingly sedentary, I was urged to switch to Michelob Ultra, the low-carbohydrate beer. I did. I preferred Miller Lite, but for the promise of dietary benefit (and after the first good beer buzz) I learned to enjoy Mich Ultra. Then reading Chris’ beer blog made me think. Exactly how substantial was the trade-off? I did a little research.

A twelve ounce serving of Michelob Ultra has 95 calories, only one fewer than Miller Lite. (Interestingly, Ultra was first marketed at a Lite-matching 96 calories, so one wonders where in the marketing department that extra calorie was lost). Michelob Ultra is 4.1% alcohol by volume where Miller Lite weighs in a 4.2%. And in the carb category, Michelob Ultra claims 2.9 grams to Miller Lite’s 3.2 grams. Yes, Ultra wins that battle: by 0.3 grams of carbs.

Here’s a little bit of math for you. One Baked Lay’s potato chip has 2.09 grams of carbs. Drinking either Mich Ultra or Miller Lite, you’re barely getting more than the carbohydriacal (yes, I made that word up) equivalent of ONE low-fat potato chip. The difference between the two beer brands is approximately one seventh of that potato chip -- you would have to drink SEVEN Miller Lites to out-carb an equal number of Mich Ultras by the amount of one tasty Lay’s. And let’s face it, by the time you’ve had seven bottles of anything, you’re probably going to ruin your carb count by stopping off at Waffle House on your way home anyway. In someone else’s car.

Someone in the Miller marketing department lost their job over this one. If not, they should have. Michelob should have never been able to pull the “diet beer” title – and sales – away from them. It’s simply not supportable.

So good-bye tasteless Ultra, you lying bastard beer, I’m going back to my ex.

I just won't let Chris see the empties.

Church's-Chicken-Hill Downs

When I expressed an interest in Del Mar horse racing this week, I was asked by a Californian friend, via e-mail, how I had managed to live in Tennessee without having seen a horse race. The short answer is that Tennessee is not Kentucky. The long answer, however, is what I chose to provide.

I explained how, despite the fact that Seabiscuit, War Admiral, and every horse in the 2003 Kentucky Derby could trace its lineage back to a stud (Bonnie Scotland) from Nashville’s Belle Meade Plantation (where I once worked as a waitress), there hadn’t been horse racing in Tennessee, save for an annual fundraising event, since an anti-betting law was passed in 1906. The Iroquois Steeplechase (named for another distinguished Belle Meade sire) is run the second Saturday of May each year at Percy Warner Park without betting, which remained illegal in Tennessee until the legislature passed the State Lottery bill in June of 2003.

That’s the almost-short answer. In my actual reply I allowed my research to elaborate, naming the 30 remaining acres of the once 5,400-acre plantation “one of the South’s most outstanding showplaces” and placing the “beautifully restored” Belle Meade Mansion on the National Register of Historic Places. My online resources spanned the Plantation’s website, the Lottery Insider, and the Tennessee Encyclopedia of History and Culture. Oddly, one of the better resources came from the American Bar Association which provided tour information for folks attending their spring meeting in Nashville. Go figure.

Having been greeted with a page and a half of research in response to what was barely more than a yes or no question, my friend replied “I’m trying to think of other subjects on which I could get free in-depth research by making casual remarks.” I laughed for a full minute before going on to read “Why is the sky blue? And why DO chickens cross roads?”

Not one to let a smart-assed question go unanswered, I quickly replied that blue was the shortest wavelength of light and the most easily scattered when it hit the Earth’s atmosphere, going on to explain how that also makes a sunset appear red. But in answer to the chicken question I wanted more; a little less science, a little more tongue-in-cheek. I found my answer easily and didn’t edit my reply. If he thought a page and a half was long.... Ha! Some of the answers were too fun not to share, though. So here are my favorite online answers to “Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”

Plato: For the greater good.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find out.

Douglas Adams: Forty-two.

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Macbeth: To have turned back were as tedious as to go o'er.

Donne: It crosseth for thee.

Anyone else got a question?

Ding Dong! The Jig is Dead!

When I came to San Diego in January, the apartment where I would be staying was mostly a quiet one. In the evenings, I was told, you could expect to hear the resident one floor above (affectionately dubbed Thumper and assumed to be female) scurrying about at top speed. On the weekends, you could expect to hear the downstairs neighbor playing his music too loudly and entertaining guests.

By April, through my continued stay, I had become as familiar with the pattern as had my parents, for whom the apartment had been secured, in their frequent visits. But in April the pattern changed. The music downstairs was no longer confined to the weekends. Or the evenings. At any time of day or night, a loud base line could be heard. And felt. It was no longer simply too loud. It was Earth-shaking. Mr. Jiggy-With-It had arrived.

No one had moved out of the apartment below when the Jigster moved in; he was joining their number and upping their game. As a group they were intolerable: loud, obnoxious, rude, and omnipresent. The next three months were one big party in the apartment downstairs. And one big headache in the block of apartments above it.

Neighbors on all sides moved out during those three months. Even Thumper. But directly above the offending apartment and most affected by it, I stayed, fervently wishing to be heavily armed and legally free to open fire. Now, I do not approve of gunplay and would never under normal circumstances wish dead anybody who hadn’t previously dated my boyfriend, but in my fantasies I was willing to overlook my nice Catholic girl prejudices for a little quiet.

Fortunately, time has brought us around to another “A” month and another, more welcome, change of pattern. On the first weekend of August, I spied one of my downstairs neighbors moving his things to a portable storage unit. On the second weekend, I witnessed the remaining roommates finish the job. Mr. Jiggy-With-It has gone. Peace is restored. The apartment is quiet again.

At least until the next guy moves in.

PS: Happy Birthday, Jake!

And the Aldea Goes To...

At the 19th Annual OnStage Playhouse Banquet and Awards Ceremony this morning in Chula Vista, California, I was presented with the Aldea Award for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy or Musical during the 2004/2005 season.

I was thrilled to be recognized for my role as Olive Madison in The Odd Couple (female version), particularly after our heavily-nominated show lost in most categories to the equally well represented musical, Godspell.

While the Aldea Awards honor performances at OnStage Playhouse, the ACT-San Diego Aubrey Awards (which will be presented at the 40th Annual Celebration next Sunday) honor performances across the county. With roughly 4,255 square miles of competition, I am particularly thrilled to be among the 7 Aubrey nominees for Best Lead Actress in a Comedy.

I wouldn't hold my breath waiting to see a picture of that award on my blog. But I might cross my fingers.

*San Diego County ranks 4th in population of all metropolitan areas in the U.S.

Opsy Daisy

The next step in my medical examination will be invasive. Soon, they'll be filming a miniseries from my bladder. The doctor/director will be moving a film crew through delicate terrain to take a good look at the location. If he doesn't like the backdrop, he'll send the set crew in to cut away bits of the scenery and get them ready for their close-ups.

I've made the necessary appointment with the urologist to whom I've been referred in California, but before the month is out I'll have to figure out how to direct this tumbling snowball home to Tennessee.

Sweeps Week Continues

You're not going to believe me. It's too much. It's overkill. There can't possibly be another phone story.

But there is.

Last night, when I ran out for dinner, I missed a call. The answering machine here doesn't sound any alerts, so it was late in the evening before I saw the silent blinking light and realized I had a message. When I hit play, my doctor's voice introduced itself. "Hi, Kelly, this is Dr. Dysart, letting you know that the..." Beep.

The machine cut him off.

The machine cut him off! So he called back, speaking quickly this time. "I need to refer you to a urologist. That number is..." Beep.

It cut him off again!

This week has been filled with dead batteries, crossed phone lines, and snarky answering machines. And I don't think it's a coincidence any more. These are just the first signs of unrest. Soon we will be facing a major phone uprising. Demanding better wages and benefits, vaction, and a conversation cap, phones everywhere will band together and go on strike until a new collective bargaining agreement can be reached! They've watched the NHL; they know how it's done.

Before that happens, though, I need to talk to my doctor. Cross your fingers for me. This is the first time that a battery of tests has sent me forward to a specialist rather than backward to the obvious diagnosis.

Must Me TV

My life has been abducted by television network executives. Not the good ones who work hard all year, but the guys who crawl out of the woodwork during sweeps week and decide that every show on the network is going to be tied together with a common theme. Like, oh I don't know... dead phones, let's say.

For example:

First, the highly successful series Friends-ish will feature that kooky girl Rach-kel debating whether to use money she found under the sofa to replace her dead cell phone battery, even though she knows the money is Mom-ica's....

Then, on Sein-keld, our vacationing heroine Kel-aine will lose days of mobile phone usage to a dead battery while fighting the foreign Cell Nazi for a replacement. When she finally wins, she'll discover she missed an important call from her landlord back home... and another fight is looming.

Finally, on ER-ER-O, after allowing a controversial procedure at County General Hospital Days of Our Lives, Dr. Kel-izabeth Corday will distractedly scour her kitchen. She'll unplug and move the portable phone to clean under it, but when she puts it back, she'll plug into the wrong phone jack and possibly miss an important call from her own doctor with test results....

Jeez... not only am I stuck in a bad Sweeps Week marketing ploy, it seems I'm also stuck in 1999 -- none of the shows I spoofed are still in first-run. (Whattaya mean ER hasn't been cancelled yet? Why not?) But you get my point. On TV, I'd never have bought the dead phone theme. I'd have been rolling my eyes in disgust. "Weak! Weak!" I'd have cried.

But at least on TV it would have happened to three different people.

Don't Ask

I'm a freak. I love it when I have to have medical tests. I like the little ones -- blood and urine tests -- but I'm particularly fond of the big ones. The ones you can't just do any old day. Ones that require large, expensive toys. EKGs, CT scans, EEGs, Lower GIs, X-Rays, ultrasounds. I've had them all, and I love the whole thing. The sounds, the smells, the unique stamp it puts on a day. Of course, that's probably because I've always been healthy. The tests have always eliminated serious diagnoses; only one has ever found anything worse than a broken bone or pneumonia.

That one, a GTT (glucose tolerance test), found a real problem. One I knew about before the doctors did; one that sent the doctors back to school before they'd believe me. In fact, most of the other tests I've had were part of the process of eliminating everything else before a doctor would run the test I knew I needed. I knew because I'd seen my father suffer my symptoms. My problem was inherited.

Don't get me started on the number of people who SAY they're hypoglycemic. Who taught them this word?

I have a soapbox. One on which I frequently take stand when it comes to this issue. Because everybody is little-h hypoglycemic at some point in most days. It's part of the body's system of checks and balances. Your blood sugar drops; you eat. That's what hypoglycemia means: low sugar. Perfectly normal little-h hypoglycemia. It's the big-h variety that'll get you. Hypoglycemia is the pancreatic flip side of Diabetes... creating too much insulin rather than too little. Or, in my case, way too much insulin rather than way too little. There's no danger of over-administering with a needle -- the body does so without help. And don't keep candy around for the insulin overload to work on because, unlike the Diabetic body, the reactive Hypoglycemic body will make more insulin in response, dropping the blood sugar still lower. Hypoglycemic shock? A daily possibility. Without a prescription!

Now, to be fair, there are people whose blood sugar tends to run a bit low, but there are very few of us who so overproduce insulin as a response to ingesting sugar that the mistake could be fatal. I think the disease needs a new name to distinguish it from the normal little-h drops in blood sugar. Hyperinsulinism, for example. Not that a new name would help. Maybe one percent of one percent of the population actually has this problem, so no matter what you call it, no one (even many doctors) knows what it is. Or at least, they don't know what the real thing is. The one with the big H. If they know the word at all it's because they can point to ten people who claim to be hypoglycemic because they needed a biscuit one day a few years ago. So many have cried wolf that no one takes the real thing seriously. Like I said... don't get me started. But your friend who likes to walk around saying he's hypoglycemic as if he has a disease is part of my problem. Don't let him talk to me until I've seen his GTT results.

Told you I had a soap box. But I digress.

Yesterday I went in for a cat scan of the kidneys, bladder, and the ureters that connect them -- the whole urinary system -- to once again rule out serious diagnoses. I was laid out on a table, hooked up to an IV full of warming contrast dye, and shot into a tunnel of x-ray equipment. With my arms stretched over my head, I listened as a computerized voice told me when to hold my breath and when to exhale while cameras shot pictures of my guts. I loved it.

In the years since I last had a cat scan the machine and the test have changed. Once a 45-minute affair, this process took roughly ten minutes. And the tunnel of x-ray equipment was much more compact than I remembered. Rather than a room unto itself, this was merely a fat ring in the middle of one. It was an in and out, over and done with affair, much too quick for my fascination. Almost anti-climactic. Like giving all of your ride tickets at the fair to one that ends too soon.

The problem with the big tests, though, is that no matter how healthy you might be, no matter how fine you might feel, the fact is that there is something wrong with you. Maybe not scary, probably not life-threatening, but there's something that the first little tests picked up on. And so there's a natural tendency, I think, to want to play into test day and feel sick. There's a drama in lying on the couch, the IV bandage and patient wristband on your arm, feeling all oogie and wanting someone to bring you a cup of soup and feel sorry for you. It's one of those rare days that just screams for a little pampering. And it's a hell of a bummer to spend it alone. By noon yesterday, I'd gone home to a quiet apartment where no one waited. I spent the rest of the day watching TV, eating sugar-free popsicles, and staring at the phone, which didn't ring.

So today I'm going out to pamper myself. And if Dr. AWOL calls while I'm out... well... I hope he leaves a number where I can reach him this time.