Opening NIght (check-In is in the morning, assholes)

I've been battling the urge to throw things all day.

I was a good girl, I was in bed at 11:15, pillow between my knees so my back would be less crunchy than usual, fan on medium to ensure maximum white noise haze. I put lotion on my legs and a cool mask on my eyes. I even counted slowly backwards from six, visualizing each number with its corresponding color of the rainbow (a red six, an orange 5. . .) all lazily dancing in a pretty green meadow.

And what did I get for all of that careful, loving preparation for a good night's sleep?

Half-asleep hallucinations of tap numbers, rolling around on a concrete floor, and people I love spitting in my face. Lots of sweat. Muscle cramps in my jaw.

So. I got up at 8:15, full of innocent hope that my day would be better than my night. I took a shower, I made coffee and breakfast, I listened to Of Montreal. I dressed in green and brown and gold. Things were looking up.

And then.

Ari's car had an almost flat tire that I didn't have the time or money to fill back up. I fell asleep three times in Western Civ. By the time I got back to work my arms and hands were covered with coffee and some combination of pineapple juice and cottage cheese, and my entire body was covered with sweat. My arms were sore from trying to A. carry my coffee cup in such a way that it wouldn't vomit its contents all over me, and B. carrying my stupid make-up kit/lunch/dinner because I don't have time to go home before call AND I have to eat before 5 or my corset won't fit.

Then I show up to work and before I even get in the building I see all of the people that were supposed to check in this morning (check in is in the morning, assholes) lined up to check in at 2PM. Do people not read signs? More importantly, do people not read THE CONTRACTS THEY ARE MADE TO SIGN??? So I spent the first 45 minutes of my afternoon shift literally knee deep in video equipment. Not to mention one of the guys checking in was rude to me about not having the right cable to make his field monitor work.

You know what? They hired me knowing full well I didn't know how any of this equipment works. It's not my fucking fault. I direct plays. I have used a camcorder three times in my life. Once for somebody else's English project in the 9th grade. Once when it was briefly proposed that I do a TV show for my high school. Once to video tape my 609. If you need the cable, ask for it, and I will kindly give it to you. But I'm not here to make suggestions, buddy. FUCK OFF.

And then? Eight text messages from a friend, all of which were sent to make me feel guilty about not paying attention to her. Really, I'm glad she and I are friends again after a several year hiatus, but when she starts in like this, I cannot help but flash back to similar guilt trips, along with some occasionally screaming, that led to our friendship hiatus in the first place. I understand wanting to be paid some attention. God, do I understand. Really, though, there is a limit. Especially today.

After that? You guessed it. I sat down and had myself a little cry, in lieu of throwing coffee in someone's face.

I'm going to Murphy early to do some yoga before I cinch in my waist/paint up my face/shellac my hair. Then I'm going to be a raging bitch like this is the last time I'll ever be on stage.

I have some things to discuss with karma.