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I arrived for the audition a couple of minutes late. I’d never been to the theater before and had gotten turned around.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to the girl sitting behind the table.
“No problem,” she said, as she handed me an audition form. “What part are you auditioning for?”
She then handed me another sheet with the character names and descriptions.
I looked them over and settled on Grace, who was described as a tired old lady.
“Grace,” I said, decidedly.
After all, I played 70 year-old Aunt Ruth in Marvin’s Room last year and won all kinds of accolades for the visible panty lines on my polyester pants.
Yes. I could easily play a tired old lady. In fact, I could even wear the same polyester pants! They were very comfortable.
“Perfect,” she said as she handed me the monologue I would be performing for my audition.
I located a spot on the floor, got comfortable and began to read the monoloue.
After a few minutes I realized that Grace was Black.
“O…KAY”, I thought. And kept reading.
And noticed that Grace was an old Black woman with a deep Southern accent.
Now, I can pogo stick and jump rope on stage. And roller skate. But pull off a Southern accent? Not exactly one of my talents.
And Grace said things like, “My God say ain’t gone be no cuttin.”
"O…KAY", I thought. And kept reading.
Then I got to the part about how her doctor wanted her to have breast reduction surgery because her “titties” were so large.
I looked down at my modest pair.
"O…KAY", I thought. And kept reading.
I flipped the page over only to discover that poor Grace had injured her back because her “titties” were so monstrous. And giving birth to 5 children resulted in 180 pounds resting on her 5’2” frame.
O…KAY.
I may have lost count by then, but I think that was the 5th strike against me. Most people would have walked away at this point.
But I’m not most people.
So what if I didn’t have the perfect look for the role of an elderly obese Black women with a deep Southern accent and tremendously large “titties”.
I was Lou Clyde, damn it. I could do this!
I walked into the audition room overflowing with confidence. Until I noticed that they were filming the auditions.
The humorless director instructed me to look into the camera, say my name and the part I was auditioning for.
“My name is Lou Clyde, and I am auditioning for the part of Grace.”
“Good”, she said. “You can start at any time.”
So I took a deep breath, and had the best audition you could ever expect from a skinny flat small medium-ish chested White woman from Buffalo.
When I was finished I looked up from my paper and the director said with a straight face, “We’ll be in touch.”
I thought about saying, “Thank ya’ll. And have a blessed night.”
But I realize that I would have been pushing my luck. So I just hauled my Black ass out the door and drove home as fast I could.
To get started on this blog.
You’ve all been there. Something you ate isn't sitting well. And you are about to give the janitor something to sprinkle sawdust on.
It would be nice if there was a toilet nearby. Or at least some privacy.
But you can't always count on that.
And admit it. There’s no attractive way to barf.
Unless…
You have a designer barf bag.
I was at a meeting the other day and someone, let's call her "Francine", had to run from the table so fast she barely got to the bathroom before doing the backwards bungee.
Just think how much easier it would have been for her to just open her purse and pull out a specialty barf bag.
Rather than wondering where Francine had run off to, we all would have been marveling at her barf bag.
Francine could have finished her launch, quickly sealed the leak resistant bag shut, and said, "Now, where were we?"
Think of the time she wasted running to the bathroom and back.
The barf bags come in all kinds of attractive styles. They are sold on www.barfboutique.com.
Barfboutique has such a comprehensive inventory of cool and fun barf bags, I would have a difficult time choosing one.
I'm completely torn between:
And this:
But then again, you walk a fine line when your designer barf bags are too fashionable.
I can just hear it now. "Francine, that is the cutest barf bag I've ever seen!"
"Gee, thanks!"
"Where did you get it? Pass it over. Is that a taco on the outside?"
"Yep. On the inside, too."
I have no one to blame but myself.
I was joking around with Debbie, one of my cast mates in Funny Little Thing Called Love. She told me that she was going to take a break from theater after our show closed.
Except she said, "Thee – A – Ter". With the emphasis on the A.
“Debbie,” I teased. “You are not taking a break from Thee – A – Ter. It’s thee-uh-ter. Soft A.”
We debated for a few minutes the correct Northern versus incorrect Southern pronunciation of the word.
I then asked her how she pronounced the word i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e and she, of course said "INsurance". And I informed her that the correct pronunciation is "inSURance".
I continued. “And how do you pronounce the word c-e-m-e-n-t?” I was enjoying myself.
“It is SEEment,” Debbie said, beginning to get annoyed at my cockiness.
“Si-ment,” I corrected. "Unless, of course, you're Elly May Clampett."
“WAIT A MINUTE,” Debbie said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you pronounce “realtor” wrong on stage EVERY NIGHT.”
“No I don’t!” I replied, defensively.
“You put an extra A in it!!!” she said. “You say, realator.”
“That’s how it’s pronounced,” I said. “Realator.”
“But it’s spelled r-e-a-l-t-o-r.” Debbie said, smugly.
Crap.
I’ve been saying "realator" all my life. Is it a New York thing? Or a Wisconsin thing?
Or just a Lou thing?
Like when I pronounced foreign ‘for-ee-gin’ in 5th grade.
OMG! How humiliating!
I had pronounced the word incorrectly six shows in a row! And I was just learning of the transgression minutes before our last performance.
I could fix it. I WOULD fix it. Better late than never, right?
As I waited offstage for my cue I repeated the words, “realtor, realtor, realtor” in my head. Debbie came up behind me and whispered, “realtor.”
I made my entrance, silently repeating the words “realtor, realtor, realtor”.
Then came my line:
“I went to a condo open house the other day and guess who the reala..real. reala.realtor turned out to be?”
I said it just like that.
Oh well. It just proves that anything can happen onstage.
After all, it is live thee-A-ter.
When Dr. T told me I had a cavity I was dumbfounded.
“But I thought I was at full cavity occupancy!” I whined. “What…did someone move out?”
“Yes- Number 14. Mesial distal bicuspid.”
NO!!!!!!
I told Dr. T. I wanted a LOT of novacaine. I wanted to be drooling for hours.
I wanted to need a bib.
He administered one teeny little shot and told me he’d be back in a few minutes.
I waited for my mouth to get numb. I moved my jaw from side to side. I poked my tongue around my mouth. I slapped my face.
It was not working. I just knew it.
And I told him so.
Dr. T. disagreed. “I think you should have enough Novacaine,” he told me.
“You said THINK and SHOULD!” I squeaked.
“What?”
“You said, ‘I THINK you SHOULD have enough Novacaine.”
“You should!” he insisted.
He still didn't get it. “I would rather you tell me, 'I know you have enough Novacaine.”
He growled, “Based on my 30 years of Dentistry, I’m certain you have more than enough Novacaine.”
Then he told me to open up.
“How long will you be drilling?” I asked.
“I’m not drilling. I’m using a sonic blaster.”
“WHAT??”
“Relax! It’s like I’m fracking your tooth.”
“Just don’t fracture my tooth.”
Then he inserted the sonic blaster into my mouth. It sounded like an angry witch screaming her lungs out.
"ZZZZZZZZZzzZZZZzzzZZzzz.”ZZzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZzz!"
Then the witch started judging me, “zzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzZZZ She’s been eating jelly beans ZZZZzzzZZZZZZZZZ!"
OMG! How did she know?
“ZZZZZZZZZzzZZZ and Peeps zzZZZZ! And peanut brittle!”
Thankfully, the screaming stopped after a few minutes. And Dr. T said he was done.
Say what?
Aside from the headache the screeching witch gave me, and the self-inflicted holes in my hands from clenching my fists too tightly, I didn’t feel a thing.
Whew. That was nothing!
Absolutely nothing.
I grabbed a fresh baked cookie on the way out of Dr. T’s office. (He knows how to grow his business.) And I headed into work.
But not before turning on the sign.
The Japan Trend Shop is one step ahead of the curve.
Again.
I didn’t even know I had this unmet need. And they have solved it for me.
The Thumb Extender for Phone Touchscreens by Thanko will not only lengthen my thumb, it will prevent my thumb from suffering needless exhaustion.
From their web site:
Don't you just hate it when your fingers can't get around the screen on your phone fast enough? Or when you need two hands for those recent phones with larger screens? Well, just slip on the Thumb Extender for Phone Touchscreens by Thanko and never have to worry about getting a tired thumb from all that sliding over the screen.
This is fantastic! Now my thumb can take that much needed nap.
Which reminds me of a Kimmy story. When she was about 3 she was playing with Legos and decided to throw one across the room. "Honey, don't throw your Legos," I scolded. To which she replied, "It wasn't my idea. It was my thumb's idea."
Think about how much further she could have catapulted that Lego had she owned a Thumb Extender.
As much as I’d love to have a Thumb Extender (so that I would no longer have to worry about getting a tired thumb), it’s $28, plus shipping and handling. That is way out of my blog budget.
So I made my own!
I had a pair of purple rubber gloves leftover from my wallpaper removal debacle.
After meticulous measurement and cautious cutting I had the framework for my Nerdling Thumb Extender.
Then, sparing no expense, I stuffed some toilet paper into the end of the thumb, and...voila!
Except it needed something.
I mean, I could "just” replicate theThumb Extender for Phone Touchscreens, but that would be so...so...so status quo. Being the marketing genius that I am I needed to raise the bar.
So I added Nail Polish. With sparkles.
Now it’s time to test drive it.
In fact, I’m going to test drive it right now. I will finish up this blog entry while sporting my Nerdling Thumb Extender.
Kind of exciting, isn't it? Almost like reality television. (That is how avant-garde this blog is.)
Here I go! Drum roll please.
Erjloiu34fdm sdd340dsva hfd 23cn,gfs;n.dg er394 8zdcvjeajaerug s er! dasfjkl
dkjw cn5d pe4 88xc,f;jqf9bcxs'wie r r349
dsljkr! di
I suppose it could be worse.
It could be the National Enquirer, instead of The State Newspaper.
Damn! Why do we have to have such an excellent publicity person?
Please don't think I'm being vain. It's a really, really unflattering photo.
That's what I get for being a good sport. When the director asked me to play the role of the "body" during the publicity photos for A Funny Little Thing Called Love, I willingly agreed. I mean how could I possibly turn her down?
Nobody else in the cast has the vast experience I’ve had playing bodies. In fact, I played the dead body TWICE in 9 to 5. At the risk of appearing arrogant, my character was quite authentic. I never moved. Even though my nose itched.
That's the problem here. I look really dead in this picture. And the ironic thing is, I’m not supposed to be dead. Just passed out.
I’ve taken bad pictures before. On the scale of horrendous photos, this one falls somewhere between my first grade class picture and my 1992 drivers license.
I just don’t understand why Glenn picked that photo. There were at least 3 better ones.
Like this one:
Glenn is such a perfectionist. He probably didn't pick it because I was looking at the camera.
I suppose that’s why he didn’t pick this one either.
But for crying out loud, this next one was perfect. My eyes were closed and everything.
OMG! I think I get it now. I’m not even in that scene. I was just filling in for someone else.
Glenn must have been worried about me upstaging everyone else with my beauty.
Damn him.
One might wonder why I had a bag of frozen chicken bones on my passenger seat. Not frozen chicken wings. Frozen chicken bones.
And I was late for my haircut.
The bag of bones would have to stay in my car for an hour. Because I couldn't - no wouldn't - take them inside. I mean, how could I explain it?
They were in a somewhat transparent Food Lion bag.
It's February. Surely they wouldn't thaw out and stink up my car in one hour's time.
Most (normal) homes have a process for removing kitchen trash. It probably goes something like this:
- The kitchen trash can gets full.
- The bag is taken to the outside trash can.
- On garbage day the outside trash can is taken to the street.
Simple, really.
Our process is a bit more complicated.
Trash that has the potential to "ripen" while waiting for garbage day (like chicken bones do), is put in plastic bags and stored in the freezer until garbage day.
And I'm totally cool with this process.
Unless Dave forgets to put it in the garbage day trash.
Last night we were going to the mall. Dave said, “Take the chicken bones with you.”
“Mom doesn’t like to do that,” Linda responded, perceptively.
Damn right. I still have psychological scars from that watermelon debacle. The bag of watermelon rinds was so big it wouldn't fit into the opening of the trash can outside of JC Penny.
I pushed. I shoved. I put every ounce of my bodily weight into it.
“Hurry Mom,” Linda said. “Someone’s coming!”
“IT- ugh –WON'T -ugh – FIT.”
Talk about a trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.
I thought about opening the bag and moving the rinds from within the bag into the trash can one at a time but that would have been messy. And really embarrassing.
Crap. Someone was coming.
I started trying to pry the top off the damn can. What was it SUPER GLUED on?
"Linda, help," I whispered. Then louder, "Linda? Get over here and help me!"
But she was gone.
In the meantime, people started parading past, elbowing each other. “That’s so sad. Going through the trash outside JC Penny.”
In the end I just set the bag of watermelon rinds on the ground next to the garbage can and nonchalantly walked into the store.
Damn it. I was not going to have a reenactment of that watermelon mall debacle.
I accidentally forgot to take the chicken bones to the mall.
But unfortunately, when I went to leave for to my hair cut appointment this morning, the chicken bones were waiting for me. On the passenger seat of the car.
Damn, is he persistent.
I told Jennifer (my hairstylist) the predicament I faced and she told me that there happened to be a trash can right outside the door.
I got my bag of bones from the car and innocently strolled down the sidewalk. I whistled a happy tune. Beautiful day! Just taking a walk. La-la-la-la.
And I made the drop.
Smooth as glass.
I should be in the CIA I'm that good.
I just hope for Jennifer's sake, that the garbage can doesn't get too stinky.
