4.30.2007

Monday April 30, 2007

Last night, I biked to the theater for work.  Not unusual.  The front door was all wonky and evil, so I opened up the side door, which opens directly onto the stage.  I brought my bike in, but left it on stage while I went to go flip on lights, answer phone calls, and generally think "hm, should really move my bike into the office" without actually doing it.  Then, box office opens, we're running like mad, and the show starts.  And then, 90 minutes later, I'm getting ready to head home via bike- OH MY GOD MY BIKE IS ONSTAGE!  I NEVER MOVED IT!  SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK ME SIDEWAYS.  Panic sets in, I freak out and run through the dressing room, and accost a dancer:  "holy christ is my bike onstage?  oh no no no no, I'm so sorry- I left my bike onstage! now! during show!"
Thankfully, our stage manager had removed it from the stage before the show started, and stashed it elsewhere for me.  It took a good 90 minutes to get my heart rate back to normal after thinking that people had been dancing around my bicycle in front of a paying audience.
{By the by, this paying audience?  They're a chore.  This particular company attracts an audience largely unfamiliar with the Southern and the city.  These patrons, while financially a godsend, are rather high-maintenance.  These are the overly-tanned, hair-plugged, pleated khaki-sporting i-bankers and their bleached-blonde, aerobicized, cheekbone-implanted, tennis bracelet-wearing wives (well, and their credit cards, which is the important part).  They fancy themselves as some sort of Minnetonka Elite, who can now brag to their friends at book club that "oh yes, we support the arts.  Why, just last week, we drove into the city to attend a performance at this little theater- nothing like the Ordway- it was very alternative!".  The majority of these patrons, while totally out of their comfort zone, are totally gracious.  However, the women who come in with their faces haloed by enough diamonds to pay off my student loans and who give us a look like "oh, aren't you cuuuute with your little theater?  It's such a nice hobby!" are the ones that piss me off.  I want to snatch the baubles from their necks, wrap them around my fist into makeshift brass knuckles, and hit these bitches in the mouth.  How cuuuuute am I now, motherfucker? 
Sadly, I'm totally aware of the looks these women give our staff, and tend to dress up for working these shows.  Rather than, say, a ratty Pat Benetar t-shirt and flipflops, I'm showing up in a dress and heels.  It's giving in, but it's also forcing them to take me more seriously, although it goes against the "performance for everyone!" aesthetic that's been cultivated at the Southern for so many years.  Defeat comes with matching shoes, it seems.}
 
 
Things that make me happy, even when being condescended to by trophy wives:
 
roasted beets, chopped up with Trader Joe's low-fat chevre.  Not that chevre is a superfatty cheese in the first place, really, but this caught my eye and has surprised me with its loveliness.  I need to stock up, or stop eating an entire tube of it at a time.
 
how unbelievably clean my apartment is now- I went on a swiffer rampage this past week, and I could have knit two or three new cats with all the cat hair from under my bed and the couch.  It's safe to walk around barefoot once again.
 
More Tara in my life!  She's back from her Peace Corps stint, and will be up this weekend in Minneapolis.  Her new job is in Bemidji, so not next door, but much closer than South America.  Her dog made it through quarantine, so we'll have the grand experiment this weekend to see how a fat, lazy cat gets along with a medium-hyper dog. 

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