Leave of Absence

In a few hours, my parents will arrive in San Diego, returning to the apartment made for them that I've been occupying. By the end of the week, my brother and his family will join us here as a stop on the road to Disneyland early next week. In the meantime, my mother will command the computer. In between time, I'll be at the theatre. Ain't we got fun. In the midst of all this, regular updates will be difficult if at all possible, but I'll have plenty to share by this time next week. See you then!

Easter Review

Today is Easter Sunday and we have a matinee. Not that I mind. My family will be eating ham, finding baskets, and hunting for eggs in Tennessee, but I had no other plans alone in San Diego.

Easter isn't one of the more sentimental holidays for me, but it is one of the big three holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, that brings the family together for a day. A day of food, fun, and creativity. Over the years I've seen some very crafty ways to hide eggs from older hunters. Once, when my father cut the bottom out of a Diet Coke can, a marked-for-capture egg found safe refuge. I'll miss this year's innovations.

Our cast won't be searching for hard-boiled eggs today, but we may enjoy a few of the scrambled variety in each other's company. We have plans to meet at a San Diego eatery -- The Big Kitchen -- for breakfast. Brunch, really. And over brunch, perhaps we can also enjoy our third review.

If I had any meloncholy at the day's beginning, it melted away when I read Paola Hornbuckle's review. For my part, it said:

Kelly Lapczynski as Olive commanded the stage with her sheer presence and lofty voice. She seemed to channel Oscar into a perfect female version.

My presence and voice have gotten a lot of attention, but today it is the idea that I found the "perfect" female interpretation of Oscar that will make my colorless, shell-free eggs go down easy.

Cloe and Jacob on a Fine Summer's Day

I’ve never figured out why this is, but I’ve always been popular with young boys. A magnet for kids and animals in general, the force is particularly strong with 8-12 year old males. I’ll shoot hoops with them, let them play with the neighborhood dog, and listen when they talk about the red-headed girl. They think I’m cool. And I think that’s cool. Soon testosterone will addle their brains and girls like me won’t be on the radar. Nature will put them on drugs. For a long, long time. Danger: shiny objects and giggly, jiggly things. But for now, they are bright, enthusiastic, and a joy to be around.

In San Diego, I’ve got a new buddy named Jacob. Jacob came to see The Odd Couple because his mother, Lisa, is in the show; but as Olive, I caught his attention by being a loud, smart-alecky slob who throws pasta around. Right up the 8-year-old alley. Immediately after the show, Jacob and I began to debate which of us was sloppier. His older sister, Cloe, informed me that I would “cry with defeat” if I saw Jacob’s room. Later, Lisa brought in pictures of the room to bolster Jacob’s point.

As I understand it, Jacob also decided that it was his job to show me the world famous San Diego Zoo. I’ve only been to a zoo once in my life, when I was no older than Jacob, and this one was on my To-Do list so I was more than happy to tag along when Lisa called Thursday morning.

Jacob’s favorite animals are the pandas, so they were the first stop on a tour that included a milestone trip over treetops in an aerial tram for heights-fearful me. It amazed me how well Jacob and his family knew their way around the zoo. You couldn’t ask for better tour guides. It turns out, though, that they were getting a new zoo experience with me, too.

It goes back to that children and animals thing: I’m a magnet. Despite all the years that Jacob and family have been going to the zoo, they say they witnessed things with me that they’d never seen before. Tigers, usually sedentary and hard to find, became very active, spraying trees and venturing down to the glass partition after I joked they should be fired. Shiftless orangutans began to climb and swing at my suggestion. Birds of prey and gorillas turned their head toward the camera on my cue. Polar bears dove and frolicked like otters, which were diving and frolicking too. Hippos slept over a vent near the glass. Even Channel 10 cameras were spotted capturing local video for a petting zoo story that night. It was only when we failed to find the ocelot in his cage that Jacob decided my “Tennessee powers” could only last so long. Coincidence, sure. But a heck of a lot of fun.

My first trip to the Zoo was a great success. By the end of it, we were all drenched by heavy rain, but we saw more activity in one day than the average person sees in multiple trips. True to form, I had trouble with my camera, but if only one roll of the four I filled develops properly, I’ll have some worthy shots.

Thanks, Jacob, for the tour. And get ready, Kendall and Haley, for your trip to San Diego. Aunt Kelly didn’t see the elephants.

Don't Mess with Mother Nature

Not 24 hours after my post quantifying San Diego rain, floods, and earthquakes, the numbers changed. Two more earthquakes registering over 3.0 hit San Diego County on Tuesday, and an honest-to-goodness rain storm bumped the precipitation data. Three more inches are expected by Friday, which will cause local rivers to flood, which in turn will cause landslides in wildfire-scorced areas.

Mother Nature is a proud woman. Apparently, I looked up her skirt and she didn't like it. Hey, I remember the Chiffon margarine commercials. My full apologies, MN. Now how about some sun?

San Diego First Born Beware

As actors filed out of the OnStage Playhouse and into a heavy fog Saturday night, there were jokes. We didn’t know at the time that this fog was not a weather phenomenon. Rather, it was part of the plume coming from a burning building about a block away. The house had been vacant for months. Which doesn’t explain how the fire was started. Or why, by Monday, a body had been discovered on the second floor.

San Diego County has been rife with oddities like this one since my arrival here two months ago.

It started with record rainfall. Since records began in 1850, this is the first time that 4 inches or more of rain have fallen in San Diego in 4 separate months in a single season. This season is already the 3rd wettest on record at 21 inches. And it isn’t over yet; the season ends July 1st. With the rains came floods. With the floods came mudslides. By mid-February, the mayor had declared a state emergency.

Next were tornadoes. California tornadoes are infrequent, averaging 14 per year for a US ranking of 32nd in tornado frequency. Since I’ve been here, three touched down in North County (Oceanside, Escondido) on February 19th; another touched down in South County (Chula Vista) early on February 23rd; and meteorologists have just confirmed another which wreaked havoc outside the county, near San Francisco, on Sunday. That’s five in two months. Four in San Diego.

After tornadoes came earthquakes. Minor earthquakes are a daily occurrence in California, but San Diego isn’t near any major seismic fault lines. Earthquakes in the area, when they come, are mild, most with a magnitude of 2.0 or less. Caltech’s Palomar Observatory registered a 3.5 magnitude quake in North County on March 13th.

With fires, floods, tornadoes, and earthquakes under my San Diego belt, I thought I’d best suit up for locusts. Surely, they would be next on the SoCal plague list. A little internet research, however, shows no cicada broods this far west. Unless my visit witnesses the evolution of Brood XIII, we should be safe from cicadas. That is, of course, unless Rodney Crowell reunites with his country-rock band and comes through on tour.

But locusts aren’t the only animals that can swarm an area. No, we won't get cicadas. Instead, we’ve got Giant Squid. Millions of them. It's the first time they've been reported in significant numbers on the Pacific Coast since 1930.

Technically, what I can report in the San Diego area it isn’t a “swarm.” Because they aren’t moving. Not anymore. Hundreds of Giant Squid are washing ashore in North County, on Oceanside beaches. No one knows what is killing them, but they are dotting the beaches at a rate of one “every 25 feet or so.” Most of these are about 3 feet long, averaging 20 pounds, but some top 6 feet and 40 pounds. Anglers near Sacramento are taking home hundreds of pounds of fresh squid from fishing expeditions in the area, but with so many dying of unknown causes in this area – what were they doing so far inland anyway? – I’m not sure I’d want to be chomping down on any thick calamari steaks any time soon.

If frogs are next on the agenda, I’m catching the first plane home.

San Diego is The Pitt's

Brad Pitt sightings are big in San Diego this weekend. Apparently, the mega star is moving into the area.

It must be the fish tacos.

Kish Me in the Morning

Yesterday I fell in love with a gay man I haven't met. That's when Cuauhtemoc Kish, called simply "Kish," read his review of The Odd Couple (female version) on the San Diego Theatre Scene weekly internet radio show.

Lapczynski was in total control of her character, inspired perhaps -- I think -- by the likes of Bea Arthur. She spouts out the correct sports answers to the trivial pursuit questions while begrudgingly funding, via telephone, her ex-husband's gambling with panache.

While "total control" and "panache" are compliments I won't sneeze at, it was the reference to Bea Arthur that tickled my toenails. Kish knocked it out of the park. I was inspired by Arthur, oh yes sir!

I grew up watching All in the Family, and then Maude, and later The Golden Girls. I loved watching Bea Arthur react to other people, not with her lines, but with her movements and gestures. She was a master of the slow burn and the double take. Before I even knew the terms, I'd seen them done flawlessly a thousand times.

Bea Arthur wasn't your typical TV starlet. She was bold, smart, quick, funny, and free of the "doormat" stigma most other smart, funny women at the time were hung with. She had a commanding presence, taller than most men, and a booming low voice. And when she made her first appearance as Maude in 1971 on an episode of All in the Family, she was 48 years old. In an industry where short, young, and cute will always work, Bea Arthur forged a career based on talent.

As a youth watching Bea Arthur, I didn't know that I wanted to be an actress; I wanted to be HER. The other women on TV didn't resonate with me. Cute little sweetie-pie waifs weren't my cup of tea. I'd never be one of them. Bea Arthur, though... that I could do. And that was worth doing. And if Kish can see even a flicker of her in me, then I'm flattered beyond words. All 350 of them.

The Review

Our director made us wait to see this review. He was afraid, he said, that people would change their performances. This created in me no small paranoia. What would you change unless you were critiqued harshly? I needn't have worried.

Lapczynski is outstanding. Her Olive is a tough, articulate sports nut who is eventually totally consumed by her dislike for friend Flo’s all-consuming neatnikism. Lapczynski has total command of the stage, not only with her
physical presence, but with her voice and the very attitude she projects as Olive.

I came out unscathed, but I could see why Jeff was holding the review. The Trivial Pursuit gals were dismissed as "unladylike charicatures." That's how Simon wrote them, and though our actresses carry little responsibility for that and the reviewer made no suggestion that they did, we have newcomers to the stage who might have read it that way.

Florence's review was also a maze of wording. Complimentary on the surface, but dizzying upon inspection.

Jo Dempsey is a total Florence. We know, even before she speaks a word, that this woman would drive anybody over the edge within a very short time. She is convincing to a fault.

"Convincing to fault" in this instance would send me scurrying to therapy.

This review was sent via e-mail to our director, who then forwarded it to me. Its format suggested it was posted somewhere online and I scurried to find a link to send to friends and family who supported my visit west and made it possible. I found in the source information something about "TMC Press" and began my search there. I did not find a link to the review. What I found was that our critic, Robert Hitchcox, was a published author. And a cancer survivor.

In 1997, "Hitch" as he calls himself, wrote a short, humor-laced book about living with prostate cancer, available at Amazon.com. In 2005, still going strong, he sat in a small theatre in Chula Vista, watching our show.

Thanks, Hitch, for your kind words. But more than that, thank you for keeping your sense of humor and sticking around to write them.

And Soon No Drinking and No Talking

When I was a freshman in high school, I’d had only a few brushes with the stage. I’d performed minor roles in school plays and had enjoyed a few “chorus” roles in community musicals after aspiring friends dragged me to their auditions. I was too painfully shy to be the focus of attention on stage. Wouldn’t even try.

Then I met Marc. Marc was an actor. He dragged me to the theatre often and soon I was working behind the scenes. I found love. But it wasn’t with Marc. Before graduation I was President of the Thespian Society with a lifetime membership.

Over the years, I worked “real” jobs during the day and gave my nights to community theatre. In time, I ventured out from behind the scenes. I now understood why shy people became actors. When you are always at a loss for words yourself, afraid to speak out, there is something amazingly comforting about having some bit of time when you know EXACTLY what to say and when to say it. When you know EXACTLY how the other person will react. For some, being on stage is scary. For me, it was the least scary part of the day.

Five years ago, I decided that instead of working all day for money and all night for free, I should find a way to combine the two and be paid for my time in theatre. A friend was performing at a dinner theatre in Nashville that was looking for a Stage Manager, and when he dropped my name, I got the job. I would not be on stage, but I would be paid and I would get my foot in the professional door. It seemed like a great idea at the time.

When I was a freshman Stage Manager, I’d had only brushes with smoking. My parents, grandmother, and uncles had all been smokers. I’d dated smokers. I was not a smoker myself. Didn’t want to be. Had no interest.

Then I met Warren. Warren was a smoker. He dragged me to smoke breaks often and soon I was smoking on my own. I found a savior. But it wasn't Warren. Before I quit stage managing, I was a smoker with a pack-a-day habit.

I had, at the time, a better than average infatuation with my chain-smoking friend. Neither of us lived in Nashville and our different schedules weren’t conducive to carpooling, so we spoke during breaks at the theatre. His method of pulling me aside was to ask me out for a smoke with him, and by golly, I took every cigarette he offered. In time, I felt I should have a pack of my own on hand for those moments. Cigarettes cost money, after all, and I’d been smoking his.

After a few months, as he accepted more roles and his schedule more closely matched mine, we did begin to carpool. Or rather, I began to chauffer. I was unwilling to prohibit smoking in my car on the long drive for fear that he’d choose instead to make the trip in his own car – without me – but I couldn’t stand the smell. I’ve never figured out why this is, but it was easier to smoke one myself than to breathe one second-hand. So, now I was smoking in the car, too.

That’s how I started smoking, but it’s not what kept me lighting up. I didn’t love cigarettes the way I loved theatre, but in theatre smoking became a necessity. It afforded me something nothing else could. Something, to me, worth every puff.

As one show ran for audiences at night and its replacement rehearsed during the daytime, workdays stretched on for twelve to thirteen hours. Breaks were rare and random and, as Stage Manager, I often worked through them. I was at everyone’s beck and call and everything needed to be done right now. In time, this created no little resentment on my part; the pay wasn’t great and I was exhausted. Then, I had an epiphany: everyone respects a smoke break. They may not respect the smoke or the smoker, but they respect the break. When you have a cigarette in your hand, you are allowed, no matter how begrudgingly, to respond to demands “when you’re finished.” In so long a work day, coupled with a long commute and – who can believe now? – a second job, those few moments to STOP were invaluable. For three years, cigarettes proved a powerful tool in insuring that I would get the breaks others took for granted and that I would have a few moments to myself during the day. That’s how it became habit.

I quit Stage Managing two years ago, but I didn’t quit smoking. I was by then living in Nashville and dating a non-smoker, but I continued to work for the theatre, waiting tables. In that arena, the smoking porch is to employees what the golf course is to Donald Trump: a social place where deals are made. Quitting would mean giving up much more than cigarettes, it seemed. Beyond that, it was habit now and a crutch I relied on.

I left the smoking porch behind when I came to San Diego. With no expectant smoking buddies, no boss to schmooze for shifts, and no good reason to smoke alone, I chose not to pack cigarettes.

There have been times I wanted a cigarette. A block from the theatre where I'm now performing, there's a seedy little dive bar where I’ve gone once or twice for a beer. What is a beer in a seedy bar without a cigarette, I ask you? But Eddie Izzard was right: you can’t smoke in bars in California. Crazy state. Nutso. What’s a seedy bar without smokes? But if you can’t smoke ‘em when you want ‘em you don’t buy ‘em.

And two months fly by.

au·di·tion (ô-dish-en)

While tooling about online this week I found a link to a local theatre's Producer's Manual. Among comprehensive instructions and standardized forms was a copy of that theatre's audition sheet. For those in a more corporate world, this is akin to a job application; auditionees fill in their vital information and relative willingness to change their appearance then return the paper to the auditor with their headshot and resume before proceeding to the interview portion of the process. It's usually a pretty mundane piece of business. But at the bottom of this sheet there was a definition. One almost worthy of Ambrose Bierce:

Audition: The act of putting oneself under extreme stress while satisfying the sadistic intentions of others.

Sounds about right.

"Scene"

It's finally over. "Hell Week," opening weekend, and reviewers are behind us now. There are four weeks of weekend performances left, but plenty of time during the week for me to return to my duties as San Diego tourist. Or is there?

Florence, after opening a show with only one week under her belt, wants to continue rehearsals. I want the show to be the best it can be, and I don't want to keep losing punch lines she doesn't see coming, so I'm certainly willing. But it means that I have only one full day off this week. What will I do with it?

Money is tight. I'm doing a show that doesn't pay in a city where I don't have a job. Because I may be leaving the city in 4 weeks, getting a job doesn't seem reasonable. I could look into temp agencies, but I'd have to re-create my resume from memory; it's the wrong agency for the acting resume I have on hand.

I'd saved enough money before I left to pay my Nashville rent while I was gone, and when my parents left town, they fronted some grocery money; but I've also had to buy items for the stage -- makeup, shoes, and such -- and what I have left must be rationed, because I don't know when or if the cavalry will arrive before April's Disney trip. That leaves quite a bit of exploring right out. There'll be no whale watching tours. No trips to the zoo. No tour of PetCo park. No Old Town Trolley tour. No Amphibious tour of San Diego. No tour of the USS Midway Museum. All things I'd LIKE to do while I'm here.

What'll I do with my day off in sunny SD? I think I'll take a roll of film to be developed, pay my cell phone and internet bills, and buy another case of Diet Coke. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll find a quarter car wash while I'm out. That's always fun; and I do park right under a tree.

Remind me to win the lottery before leaving town again. Or, better yet, to do a show that pays next time.

Opening Post Mortem

What an opening! Despite all the troubles that led us there, opening night was a smash success.

Not that it went perfectly by the book.

For one, I misspoke a line. Where I should have said “I gained fourteen pounds, seven on each hip” the words “I gained seventeen pounds…” escaped my lips, rendering the rest of the line inaccurate. I had to fix it fast enough to keep Florence from skipping to her next line, so I continued, after a pause, “What is that, eight and a half pounds on each hip?” It’s not everyday you actually have to DO the math on stage. It played; and I was amazed to have gotten it right.

For another, Florence missed her aim when throwing the cup. It is supposed to crash off stage. Instead, she walloped it into an onstage bookshelf where it shattered and splintered and went flying all over the set. Olive incorporated a bit of slobbish move-the-mess-around to clear the more dangerous shards, chucking one from the sofa into an abandoned drink before others entered at risk of piercing their bottoms.

Even the stage hands had opening night jitters. The third scene of the second act opens with Florence vacuuming, but the vacuum cleaner was set for the second scene instead. In that scene, Florence has gussied-up the apartment for a date with the Spanish boys upstairs and is perturbed when Olive comes in late, making a mess. Cleaning up after Olive gives Florence the perfect opportunity to rid the stage of the vacuum cleaner, but she doesn’t. Fortunately, Olive’s opening lines allow a bit of leeway. “What’s the matter Florence? Something is wrong, I can tell by your conversation.” In the pause I'd allowed her to put forth no conversation, I dragged the vacuum off stage. If it hadn’t struck you as odd that Florence had left the vacuum out in the first place -- and that it then failed to bother her when she went about cleaning up after Olive -- you'd never have known it wasn’t blocked that way.

Florence jumped a few lines that set up punch lines for me, but we continued smoothly, with no one the wiser. None of the dead air I so feared. And while her arms are still flailing with implements of doom, she kept a better distance last night than she had in rehearsal. If she keeps it up, I might just escape the show intact.

It was an unbelievably fun evening. The full house was responsive and I enjoyed thinking on my feet in front of them. And in a reception afterwards, I received some of the best compliments of my life and the hint of future work. It was the moment that you work toward. The moment that makes the whole trip worthwhile. Now to repeat it seventeen times.

And, yes, this time I meant to say seventeen.

I'm a Trooper

Trooper Your survival rate is 60%.

You know how to handle about half of the scenarios, which makes you quite a resourceful person. You might have made a few fatal choices, but the right choices certainly outweigh those. You would be a decent addition to a group of travelers that could be faced with extreme situations.

Link: The Worst Case Scenarios Test

I also discovered that I'm an Awesome Girl: "you don't seem to know about or care about politics, but you are beautiful and a good person (so it seems), and you seem to have a high sex drive. You're probably a great wife or girlfriend, and you know how to make sure that the ones you love are happy. You have a wonderful life ahead of you. Make sure you live it to the fullest and keep being the person that you seem to be."

Aww, shucks!

Kel E Coyote, English Genius

English Genius You scored 100% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 100% Advanced, and 77% Expert!

You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!

Link: The Commonly Confused Words Test

It's a Fort! It's a Train!

I must have been one of those kids who liked the box better than what was inside of it. I must have been. Because I don't want to think that that's something new. At 33, I just opened a package. A big package. (UPS delivered). Inside was an armchair in two pieces. Imagine the size of the box that holds an armchair. I can't bear to break it down. I want to love it, hug it, squeeze it, and call it George.

Please tell me this isn't a new development.

Be Vewy Vewy Quiet...

Wascally mail carrier! Today I almost caught him at it.

I left the house this morning to make another trip to pick up undelivered packages at the Post Office, now a daily ritual. I have, since my last related post, received my costumes (the show opens tomorrow), but my mother has ordered things in anticipation of the coming Disneyland venture and its associated visitors and I have become the middleman in lieu of Postal Petey doing his job.

I checked the box before I left -- empty -- and returned within the hour after a prolonged search for a gas station. (Which begs the question: why do my taxes fill Petey's tank when I'm the one doing all the driving?) I decided to check the mailbox at regular intervals to try to estimate what time Petey-poo gets to our place each day. Boy, did I get lucky. At 12:30, I found him buried elbow-deep in mailboxes.

There's not much logic in what I did next, because I've been home every day and know he hasn't been traipsing to my door, but I ran to the apartment and waited. This time, there was no doubt that I was home and where I could hear the bell when he came. I had him.

I knew the doorbell wouldn't ring. Petey was going to pull his "Sorry I Missed You" trick again. When I was sure he'd gone, I checked the mailbox. Nothing but junk mail. No card? Petey knows I'm on to him.

Accutane Part Deux

In the suit against Accutane there is a claim that Accutane has been linked to suicide. The numbers are breathtakingly small and the link is tenuous. What the record doesn't show, and couldn't with any real accuracy, is the number of suicides that Accutane has prevented. Severe acne is a societal disfigurement. Accutane, for many, is the only thing that corrects it. Without treatment, I contend that many more acne sufferers would have been suicidal. Myself among them. Any study that doesn't take that into account is bogus.

Witness for the Defense

This morning I woke to an ad. You know the type. “Have you been a victim? Have you or a loved one been injured? If so, call the Law Offices of So-and-So.” When did this country become so litigious that every bump and scrape has to have its own 800 number? I’m appalled at the number of people who want to sue for the risks of being alive on this planet. I’m also appalled that there’s an industry that not only serves those people, but generates them. For the most part, I ignore those ads, those people, and that industry. Not today.

Usually, I’m not familiar with the product that the suspect law office assures me I have a claim against: I’ve never taken Ephedra, never needed Vioxx. But today they were attacking Accutane. Stand back, boys, because now you’ve got my attention.

Accutane is a powerful acne medication that is only prescribed after all other methods have failed. For those with disfiguring acne, it is a God-send worth any associated risk. On and off for more than a decade, I’ve been taking Accutane and I can speak with no little authority on the subject.

Accutane is NOT an easy drug to get your hands on. So-and-So is right about one thing: there are risks involved. But not one of those risks is a secret to the patient. Not one.

In order to be prescribed Accutane, the patient must undergo consultation about the drug and sign consent forms detailing all the risks. A female patient must prove that she isn’t pregnant and is warned not to become pregnant during or soon after treatment. The patient consents to regular blood work, monitoring the liver. This rigorous process decides only if you might get the drug, and even for those who’ve been taking it safely for years it’s unavoidable.

The warnings do not end with the prescription. The packaging is daunting. The box itself must be unfolded, revealing all warnings about the drug. Inside the box, atop the pills, there is a layer of paper documentation. Underneath, in a bed of 10, each pill lies in its own press-through compartment. Guarding that compartment is a preventative backing that must be removed before the pill can press through. On that backing, in case you missed all the warnings in the doctor’s office; in case you can’t or didn’t read the packaging; each pill has its own graphic warning: the profile silhouette of an obviously pregnant woman under the universal “no” symbol – a red circle bisected by a red line. It’d be easier to break into Fort Knox than to extract a single dose of Accutane without adequate warning. The risk of birth defects is certainly the most prominent among the warnings, but it is not the only one on the product. Adverse side effects may not have been known to the public, but it’s impossible that they were unknown to a patient.

To have a case against the manufacturer, one should be able to prove that the manufacturer was in some way irresponsible, that they knew of risks yet failed to warn the consumer. Yet, despite a battery of consent forms and warning labels, So-and-So claims the manufacturer is still liable for injury. How can that be?

By acknowledging my risks, I consider that I’ve waived the manufacturer’s liability for anything about which I was warned. I made that decision. And if I, duly warned, chose to get pregnant then suffered a miscarriage, premature delivery, or mongoloid birth the fault would be mine. But in this dog-sue-dog world, I’m beginning to fear that consenting adults will soon be prevented from making informed decisions and willingly taking risks because the options will disappear. We are a nation of people who sue because our coffee is hot. The result of that suit was an increase in labeling. What happens when the labeling already exists? Will the product be removed from the market? Vioxx and Ephedra have already been pulled from shelves. I don’t know what, if any, warnings were supplied with those products. I do know that Accutane supplied ample warning and that no one who suffered did so uninformed.

Anyone who ignored the risks made their own bed. I know the risks and I’m still in mine. If I want to pull an Accutane cover over my head, it should be my choice, risks and all. Back off, So-and-So.

Not So Great Clips

When I was growing up, I used to perm my hair. I’ve always had thick hair, a lot of it, and a natural wave, so a perm seemed the best way to manage it. Over the years, though, I stopped perming. I wanted to have healthy, silky hair. I wanted to encourage my natural wave. I wanted to save seventy-five dollars.

By not perming, though, I lost control of my wave. I don’t have a regular stylist. When it’s time for a trim, I walk into Fantastic Sam’s or Supercuts, lay down 12 to 15 bucks and hope they don’t cut off too much or give me bangs. When someone unfamiliar with my hair gives me interesting layers, that’s just what they become: interesting. I can’t seem to get a manageable haircut.

So now I’m on stage and I have a problem: my hair hangs in my face and the willy-nilly layers the last stylist gave me are going haywire. I need help! I’ve been to Supercuts, but I need something more. I need someone who can hear my troubles and know exactly what to do. I need Nick Arrojo, the stylist on What Not to Wear! (I probably need Clinton and Stacy too, but that’s another issue).

I fear going to the hairstylist the way that some people fear going to the dentist. It’s harrowing. I don’t know anything about hair. Hair falls into the “girly arts” category with clothes, shoes, and makeup; a category about which this former Catholic School girl knows little. So I hate it when someone who has a degree on the subject starts asking me questions. Do I want long layers? Short layers? A bob? I don’t know! Just make me look presentable; that's your job. Never works that way. They always ask. And I always get a cautious trim.

This time, though, I’ve got it figured out. There’s a frou-frou salon around the corner, touting their hair services: “our hair designers work to create and refine their clients’ personal style.” That’s what I need! You can book graduating levels of stylists for increasing fees, so I book with Virginia, the Master Stylist, at $65. I’ve never paid $65 for anything less than a perm before, so I figure this is going to be GREAT! She’s going to know exactly what to do. I’m imagining Nick saying “we’re going to create a softer look, frame the face, and get this out of your eyes,” and a jaw-dropping transformation. Virginia will make it all right!

Before going in, I make a short list of bullet points. I am, after all, cutting for the stage. I need my hair out of my face; the audience is supposed to see me. I need some degree of versatility; changing hair and costume goes a long way in theatre to establish a scene or convey the passage of time. And I need something I can quickly style during a ten-minute intermission after wearing a ball cap for an hour; I won’t have time to fire up a curling iron. Apart from that, I don’t care. If you’ve got to cut off 4 inches, give me bangs, and layer what’s left to make me look good, then shear when ready, Gridley!

With list in hand, I meet Virginia. She’s an older Mexican lady with an air that reminds me of “Rosie,” the bossy Hungarian in Sue Grafton books. She’s short, round, and gruff, but if she’s anything like Rosie, she’ll do what’s best for me. She’s not.

Presented with the insurmountable task of giving me a versatile, brush-able haircut that doesn’t hang in my face, Virginia sneers “it’s not Magic!” and proceeds to snip. My hair, she says, is too healthy, too “silky,” to work with. In this day and age only chemically-treated hair stays in place. Now I’m thinking that if chemicals are needed my $65 should buy some chemicals. Fry away! She doesn’t offer. My $65 at the frou-frou salon buys me an $15 Supercuts trim. Before tip.

Sigh.

The next time I spend that much on my hair, I’m getting a perm. At Supercuts. But I’d still rather go to the dentist.

For a dissenting opinion… check out the girl who regularly spends $180 then goes to a walk-in. Personally, I think she's nuts. Google "In the Company of Witches" (Linking to it is forbidden).

Dr. Strangemail... or...

How I Learned to Stop Ordering and Hate the Post Office.

Roughly two weeks ago, I ordered costumes online. Not having a closet to rifle through in San Diego made that a necessity; I don't have a back-up. I ordered some things Express Mail, and FedEx delivered my packages to my door last week. I ordered other things Standard Delivery, knowing it would take longer for those items to arrive. I didn't know I'd still be waiting. Or how badly the Post Office would handle its charge.

• Standard Delivery: You can expect delivery in 4 to 7 working days. Most orders are shipped UPS, FedEx Ground or USPS. Usually, UPS or FedEx will ring your doorbell, then leave the package in a sheltered area. USPS will deliver the package in your mailbox if it fits, or put it by your door.

As the deadline approached, I sequestered myself in the house from dawn 'til dusk to accept the time-sensitive delivery. No one knocked. The doorbell never rang. But more than one "Sorry We Missed You" card appeared in my mailbox. Never mind that the carrier is allowed to leave the items in a sheltered area, that I'd put a bin in that area, and that I'd left a note pointing to that bin hanging on the door. Forget all of that. Because I was there. The guy never saw it. He never came to the door.

Today was the ever-lovin' lulu. Expecting one package and with the "Sorry" note in hand, I went to the post office to collect my costumes. They weren't there; Mom had ordered something for the apartment. Fine. But when I got home I found ANOTHER "Sorry We Missed You" in my mailbox. So, I rush back out, wondering what policy I've missed out on; I might actually have been out of the house this time, but why didn't he leave my package by the door? Maybe they don't deliver packages to apartment complexes. It doesn't matter. I am about to collect my costumes and all will be right with the world. Except it isn't.

At the counter I am informed that no one can retrieve my package because it is still out on the truck; the carrier hasn't returned yet. And the post office is about to close for the weekend. The gentleman at the desk is sympathetic and it isn't his fault. I leave on amiable terms. But I'm hopping mad.

If my so-called carrier is going to make no attempt to deliver my package, if he is going to leave a "Sorry I Missed You" message without ever approaching my door, then he shouldn't bother loading it onto his truck in the first place. If he's going to load it on his truck and drive around town with it, making it unavailable at the post office, then he should certainly attempt to find me! And if he fails, by God, LEAVE THE DAMNED PACKAGE AT THE DOOR!

It'll be Monday now before I can pick up my costumes, hoping they fit, for a show that opens Friday. It'll be my third trip to the post office for a package that could have and should have been delivered to me. I don't care if I have to pay extra for FedEx or UPS next time, but the US Postal Service can keep their mitts off of my stuff from now on!

One Week to Open

We're at the stage now where costumes, props, and lighting take priority in preparing a show to open. The actors, by now, know what they are doing. At least, they should. A week ago, I made a comparison of the rehearsal time we had remaining to the full rehearsal schedule of another theatre. Forget all of that. It's a new ball game. A lead has dropped out of the show.

With one week to go before our show opens, we will be working a new actress into the role of Florence Unger. She has one week to learn her lines and blocking. One week to find costumes. One week to prepare. Direction will be the icing on a cake we're all hoping bakes in time.

How does our schedule look now? She'll have 24 stage hours to work before we open Friday. I'll have 24 stage hours to adjust to the differences between her and her predecessor. We'll all have 24 stage hours to learn where her lines will fail her, how taut we'll have to hold her net, and how that caution will change my character in turn. This is going to be some week!

Our original Florence gave no warning that her desertion was coming. A few hours before rehearsal, she phoned the director citing "personal reasons" for leaving the show. If those reasons saw elaboration, it was not passed along to the cast. I hope that she isn't facing a health or family emergency. On one hand. On the other? If she jumped ship at this late date for anything less... her father smelled of elderberries and her mother was a hamster!

A Diet That Isn't One

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that I am on a lifelong quest for the perfect chili dog. Which is why, when I found coupons for a little joint called Wienershnitzel in my mailbox suggesting that I join the Chili Dog Diet, I immediately consulted Google and MapQuest to find the nearest place to redeem them. Conveniently, there was a location in Chula Vista, very near the theatre.

It was a little street shop with a walk-up rather than drive-through window. I have personal mandate to avoid places that make me get out of my car to order fast food, but I was willing to overlook that rule in service to the quest. I bellied up to the window and ordered; then, back in the car, I commenced with the taste test.

I wasn't staggered by hot-doggy goodness, but I was rather amused by its marketing. The spokes-schnitzel that on one hand seemed to be cowering behind the logo of "America's Most Wanted Hot Dog" was on the other hand arrogantly exposed while promoting his "diet." Wiener-schitzo.

The diet ol' W.S. was hawking made me laugh, too. With No Guilt, No Cravings, and No Costly Foods to Buy, the pork-packed Delicious One (sm) proudly proclaimed his plan to be "A Diet You Just Can't Lose On." That sly dog.

Don't worry about Wienie. He'll make enough money from this clever ad campaign to hide from whatever dog-nappers are chasing him. Meanwhile, my quest for the perfect chili dog continues.

No Work for Tinkers

When I moved out of my parents' house 15 years ago, I was the beneficiary of several hand-me-down household starters. I took my own furniture, bought new plates and glassware, and was given old pots and pans. Among other things. For 15 years, I've continued to use the things that left that house with me and filled my first apartment. Today, in an apartment furnished for my parents within the last year, I cooked eggs. Allow me to share a bit of newfound wisdom. Every 20 years or so, buy new pans. Thank you.

Bring to a rapid boil over high heat

As opposed to a rapid boil over low heat?