List of Most Exciting Things That Happened To Me This Week

Radiation.
Radiation.
More Radiation.
Radiation (although I hardly consider that exiting now).
Nosila calling me from the top of the Empire State Building (one quick note on this: last time I was in New York, I was all of six and very asleep. So, you know, being called from the top of the Empire State Building was very, very...Very.).
Going to the park with all those Homeschoolers!!!
Carson saying he's moving to WISCONSIN OF ALL PLACES within four weeks (I tell you, my heart almost stopped beating. Wish *AHEM* would move...)

...And...That's it. I plan to do a lot of sleeping this weekend. Just to let you know.

Okay. Here's how I am feeling right now:

Wonderful.

Marvelous.

Fabulous.

Just fine.

Not really, but you can imagine. I actually have a slight headache and some nausea, but you didn't need to know that.

Here's how I'll be feeling Monday:

Dreadful.

C'mon, I just had brain surgery. What did you expect?

I'll be starting Radiation Monday. Twelve weeks from that, I'll be doing Chemo, and then I'll be FREEEE!!!!!!!! Yay!


You people should see my dominant hand shake. (In case you were wondering, it's my right.) It's terrible. Honesly. I can barely hold a pen. I can barely write.

God.

On the up side, I just got a Pixie cut. For those of you who don't know, I used (emphasis on used, please) to have hair down to my hips. And I got it all cut off to give to Locks of Love, so some lucky stiff can have it as a wig.
Right now, it's up in a scarf. Paisely silk, for anyone who wants to know...

Ya know, not everything is very fair...

Okay...good things.

Thinking. Good things.

Nothing.

Bad things.

Lots.

1. Head busted open last day of Oliver.
2. Don't know it till five days after, when
3. I wake up.
4. Can't type straight.
5. Ten days after surgery.
6. Nana, Mr. Smith, and Eamon are doing my room.
7. Green. Bright green. This is good.
8. Are also doing my floor.
9. This is just as good. If not better.
10. Forgot to mention:
A. Kelly sent (and is sending) cards every day. This is very sweet of her. How she got my many, many addresses, I'll never know...
B. Willem is staying over.

I'll let you know when I have more...

I love P.G. Wodehouse. I Love him. Passionately. Gloriously. Perfectly. Yes, he's dead, but what do I care? All the best authors seem to be dead these days.
Take Noel Coward, for instance. He wrote songs, plays, poems, novels, played piano, sang, danced, and acted. And he was friends with Gertrude Lawrence.

Wodehouse and Noel Coward had the same brand of humor, though. Dry, subtle, and very, very British. The only real difference between them was that Wodehouse was straight and he didn't write plays.

How could you not like Wodehouse?
Yes, I will admit that every story line is the same: Boy #1 meets Only Girl in the World #1. They fall in love. Boy #2 meets Only Girl in the World #2. They fall in love. As it turns out, Boys #1 and #2 are friends and they get together to compare lovers. There is a scuffle involving a cow creamer, a blue-and-pink Alpine hat, and several dogs, and when the dust settles, Boy #2 loves Only Girl in the World #1, and Boy #1 loves Only Girl in the World #2, and the butler comes in to serve dry martinis and tea. (Please note: Only Girls in the World's feelings do, in fact have some bearing in what goes on in their love lives, but you don't really read about it. Alpine hats are much more interesting.) End of story. But this leaves room for the writer to flourish his pen extravagantly. Things like this:
"...So now, instead of being cold and distant and aloof, as a lesser man would have been, he (Jeeves) showed the utmost agitation and concern. That is to say, he allowed one eyebrow to rise perhaps an eighth of an inch, which is as far as he ever goes in the way of expressing emotion."
See? How could you not love that?

Okay, I have just realized that my last five posts have been about Oliver. Just Oliver. Nothing but that darned Oliver. It is taking over my life! I have had four dreams about Oliver during the course of this production. I can't remember two of them, but that's beside the point.
Oliver is taking me over. I am being consumed. Yes, I love theatre, but I don't love it THAT MUCH.
Is this normal? Are all young thespians swamped with thespianity their first production? Or is it just me??
Okay, Now that I have gotten that soulful, questioning rant out of my system, here is something Anti-Oliver. Non-Oliver. Un-Oliver-esque.

...God help me, I'm drawing a blank. Just white noise. Absolutely nothing. See, without things to complain about, my life is rather dull. (I have come to realize that at the end of this week, my social life will be, effectively, nil. Isn't that sad?) There must be something wrong with me. I must be totally out of whack. This is not unusual, mind you, but it is rather sudden...

I am so, so glad that we have a few days off before the next Oliver performance. We have all got The Gink (sore throats, stuffy noses, lots of drainage, sleep deprivation).
I went to Choir tonight, the last rehearsal we have before going to Saltsburg. It was so nice to be with people who could count beats and knew what an eighth rest is. You know, people who know what they are doing. Non-musically-challenged people. I like people like that.
I am so, so tired. I feel like...like I haven't slept since...hmmm...last night? That sounds right. I think. If it's not right, then don't bother getting me out of hibernation, I'd probably kill you...

Welllllll... Last night was better than opening night...
I didn't get to bed until 1:07 AM, because the play didn't end until 10:00, and we had a little cast party shindig at a pizza joint until 11:00 (at least, that's when I left), and on the way home, my little brother asked if we could watch Return of the King, so we did, and that's why I went to bed at 1:07 AM.
That kid who plays Oliver is becoming a holy terror. Oliver is supposed to be scarred and submissive, and he's just being...Snotty. Like when the doctor comes to see him at Mr. Brownlowe's house, and is all "Is he hungry? Boy, are you hungry? No, he's not hungry, I knew it! Are you tired? I bet he's tired. Boy, are you tired? No? Ha! I knew it. How about thirsty? If he's thirsty, I'll eat my head! You are? I knew it!" Evil Oliver says stuff like, "Well, you'll just have to eat your head!" While nice, submissive, scarred, script Oliver says, "May I get up now, Sir? May I stay here always, sir? May I have Mrs. Bedwin as my mummy, Sir? May I buy those sweet red roses, Sir? They're only a penny for two blooms!" (Okay, he doesn't say that, but you get the picture).

We just have one more performance, and then off for the rest of the week, just a couple pick-up rehearsals and them three more shows, and that's it.
By the way, auditions for Romeo and Juliet are in June.

I survived, but I am wounded possibly beyond healing.
1. A whole verse left out of "That's Your Funeral" ("I don't think this song is funny/That's your funeral/that's your funeral" etc.) so instead of that we had "If you're fond of overeating" twice.
2. A little glitch with Oliver's cold bits: there was too much. Not to worry, not to worry, we have FIVE MORE RUNS to perfect it.
3. While we're on the subject of the Sowerberry's, the darned COFFIN was too darned HEAVY to carry off the darned STAGE with darned Mrs. SOWERBERRY inside.
4. Old Sally's death scene went really well, only...Well, the lights stayed up, so she had to resurrect herself from the dead and drag herself offstage so Bumble and Brownlowe (God, that sounds like a law firm) could enter Brownlowe's parlor without tripping over a dead body and therefore leading to a pretty awkward scene.
5. Entrance to "Who Will Buy" was five beats off. Five beats. FIVE BEATS!!! If I was so much as ONE beat off, my choir director would probably do something violent and unspeakable to me.
6. Oh, yeah, and our audience (yup, all twelve of them) was dead. Completely dead. No laughing, no gasping, nothing. Except for when my brother got killed, they laughed for that.

Tonight better be better. Or else I'll...Well...I don't know exactly what I'll do, but it won't be pretty, and it will probably contain some language that a few people would consider offensive.

Guess what I got off the needles last night, though? My halter top! I'm so excited, it's the only top I've ever knit (and I've knit a few) that looks good on me. It's purple ladder yarn (I think it's called "Matrix") and it's completely backless. It's so much fun.

Well, it's Opening Night.
The Big One.
The next apocalypse.
Disaster.
Whatever you want to call it, it's not going to be pretty, it's probably going to drag, and it's going to be one heck of an initiation for me and my brothers.
Wish me luck.
If I survive, then I shall probably curl up in a dark hole for the rest of my days. P)lease do not disturb me there.
If I am to be murdered by an angry audience or the evil stares of theatre critics, then I would like red roses and lavender at my funeral, and I would like to be buried with something alcoholic in the coffin.
These are my last wishes.

Oh. My. God.
What more can possibly go wrong with this production of Oliver? Every conceivable problem has arisen. EVERY SINGLE ONE.
1. We were kicked out of our performance and rehearsal space (the Dubois Center) because of some debate about the direction they wanted to take, costing us two weeks of lost rehearsals.
2. We lost 50% of out cast those two weeks we were stagnant, so we had to scrounge talent so local, we sleep in the same house (but not really).
3. Queen Taifa and Ron, our accompanist, don't get along at all. By no stretch of the imagination could they ever exchange remarks other than the most tepid.
4. Our Oliver is slightly tone-deaf, and cannot read music to save his life. (Actually, Taifa and Ron aren't too hot on that front either).
5. Our Dodger just quit, with FIVE FREAKING DAYS TO GO BEFORE OPENING NIGHT, so we now have someone else, who is very good, and picking up the blocking very fast, and actually taking the part seriously, but still.
6. Everyone has colds. EV-ER-Y ONE.
7. Okay, who has their lines memorized? Just the teens? No adults except the narrator? Really? Would you like to sign your own death warrant? What time do you want the press to hang you?
But oh, god, it's fun.
I still haven't written about the harem massage incident, have I?
Former Dodger walked in about a million hours late last Saturday, and when we asked him why, the only coherent things he could manage were "party" "tired" and "one bleeping hour of bleeping sleep".
So we dragged him out and all the girls (orphans and Fagin's gang kids, too) and gave him a backrub for forty-five minutes straight.
I swear, the boy has no qualms whatsoever about a tribe of underage girls handing him paradise on a linoleum floor for that long.
And then he didn't come back, and we were all heartsick. Except for me, of course, I have learned (not from personal experience, mind you) that it never works out to date a guy you're working with. Especially if you're an actress, I mean, how can you flirt meaninglessly on stage then?
So that's pretty much it for now...

Sooooo...Tired...Sleeep....
Nope, nope, nope, I must wake up...Well, maybe not...
NO! AWAKE! Think AWAKE thoughts...God, I'm so tired I can't type straight...I keep missing the space bar and all those punctuation marks...
Okay, thinking of being AWAKE...Analyzing the dangers...Aaaaand...It's not worth it. I should go back to sleep...
But guess what? I'm NOT going to. NOT. NO. I cannot make me.
Woah... that sounded wiered...I mean, weired...Oh, forget it.
No, I am going to work on a farm until 4:00 in the afternoon, and then come home long enough to change and then go to an Oliver rehearsal until 9:00. So yes, my day is packed, and I only just remembered last night to call the lady I was supposed to be babysitting for and tell her that I wouldn't be able to make it...
Aaaaa! Falling asleep!!!!
Something to keep me awake...Hmmm...Well, last night at the gas station, I saw what looked like the semi-annual meeting of United Pedifiles and their Hoochie-Mamma Girlfriends Annonymous...No, eeew, that'll just give me really weired dreams...

WOW is it humid today.
Seriously. It is evily (evilly? evilie?) humid, which is worse than it being too hot, because when it is humid you get all sticky and crabby.

I was at an old Winn-Dixie (depressing) from 8:00-10:00 helping to sell old library books.
The Winn-Dixie in question has been abandoned since I was eight, and therefore does not have power. Which means that there were no lights, and it was HUMID.

Also, for those of you who remember the Dreaded Love Hexagon, Kelly and Carson were there, together, being quite friendly and whatnot.
Honestly.
My brother on the other hand, who bears grudges quite beautifully (no, really, they look great on him), spoke not a word to Kelly and remained sullen and brooding the entire time she was there. He says that he hasn't spoken a word to her since The Event, and plans to keep it so. He's not going to break his track record.

I have a rehearsal today, and one tomorrow, and one on Monday, and I think...Heck, I think I have them all week.

And you know what else I think? I think it's going to fall flat.

Opening night is the 18th, right? So we should be coasting along merrily, right?
Well, could someone please explain to me WHY
1) We STILL do not have cosumes for the adult cast.
2) Widow Corney and Mr. Bumble had their first-ever rehearsal of their songs "Oliver", "I Shall Scream" and "Boy For Sale" ON THURSDAY EVENING.
3) No one (exceptions Bill, Dodger, Nancy, Fagin, Mr. Brownlow, Charlotte, Noah and the kids) is off book yet.
4) The set still isn't built.
Et cetera ad nauseum. I have never been in a production outside my living room, so don't trust my assesment, but we are going to crash and burn if we don't really take care of some of this stuff!

Yesterday evening, my mom and I went camping with my brothers, my dad, and 150-odd boy scouts in the FREEZING cold.
30 degree weather, and get this: no campfires. None. Not allowed. Please just shoot me.
Camporees are always, always, ALWAYS orginazational disasters, but this--Please, people. NO CAMPFIRES?? GOD.

I was in shock all day.

Campfires are social experiences. You have not camped until you have sung American Pie around a campfire with fifty or so boys and their dads.

A campfire is where you go in the morning. You get nice and warm after being cold all night long. You toast some bread on a stick, and by the time you get back to your tent, the Alpha adult has made hot cocoa and eggs and you're all set.

A campfire is where you go for lunch. All the pyromaniacs gather around the smouldering remains of the breakfst fire and try to rekindle it during their free time, with moderate success: they use more than three matches, but it's big enough to satisfy their heat lust. Note: These guys mean well, but they like to kid around and insult you. They like to practice knot-tying in your hair. They like to set fire to your knitting. DO NOT TOUCH THEIR FIRES, OR EVEN LOOK AT THEM FUNNY. You will be immediately escorted from the premises, which is probably a good thing.

A campfire is where you go at the end of the day. You start to gather around during dinner, scrounging Hotdogs off your favorite families. You're there while everyone gets into their Class A's for flag lowering, and you get the best spot right before they all come flooding back for S'mores and singing. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, Down By the Bay, Sweet Home Alabama, There Is a Bad Moon on the Rise, Help, Margarita Ville, all these have an equal place around a campfire. All you need is a guitar and someone who can play, and you're in business.

But take away the campfire and DISASTER.

We were sitting around a turkey roaster at 40 degrees, in our tents at 38, and in each other's tents at 32.
Reduced to a turkey roaster.
Unbeleiveable.

And you know that the only reason I even go camping is because I love my guys. I do. I love them. Really. That is why I sat shivering in my jeans, jacket, and sleeping bag trying to sleep last night on the rocky ground.

And when I got up, it was still freezing.

I went from Pack 500's campsite to Troop 5's (or, from my little-little brother's to my big-little brother's) to congratulate my absolute favorite Boyscout on getting tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, and to possibly find some deserving boys to keep me warm (wishful thinking--there are none, at least, that's what dad thinks.)
Someone needs to cut that grass; I walked across the field and soaked my shoes, socks, and jeans (only nine inches or so, so that's okay).

No campfires. GOD.

The organizers are obviously either really, really dumb, or cruel, sadistic fiends who are trying to kill me.

This article sums up all the weather we have had lately in my part of the world:

And the Forecast is...
By Michael Rubiner
New York Times, August 5, 2003

Wednesday: Rain. Heavy at times. Folowed by periods of percipitation.

Thursday: Lingering showers throught the day. Chance of rain 800%.

Friday: Moist. Damp. Sodden.

Saturday: Rainish. Shower. Precipitacious.

Sunday: Light rain followed by heavy rain followed by pouring.

Monday: Unseasonably rainy in the afternoon. Uncharitably rainy in the Afternoon. Unconsiably rainy in the evening.

Tuesday: Endless showers broken by occasional flooding.

Wednesday: Remember "Water World"? Like that, only with more rain.

Tuesday: Not sunny. The opposite of sunny. Just forget about sunny, okay??

Friday: Clearing just long enough for you to make weekend plans. Followed by obscene amounts of rain.

Saturday: Take a wild guess.

Sunday: Incessent, spirit-crushing rain. The kind of rain that makes it futile to get out of bed in the morning. The kind of rain that seems as though it will never end. And guess what? It never will. Ever. Do you understand?

Monday: Please go away.

Tuesday: Ample, brilliant sunshine throught the day--Wait, did i say sunshine? I meant rain. Really hard rain.

I feel like I live in flipping Seattle!

...AND I SHALL POST!

Wow, nothing has been hapening. Seriously. Unless you count five Oliver rehearsals a week. This play is taking over my life. I am going to be burried under a pile of choreographers and costumes and scripts and scores and pianists and directors and generally everything that happens to fall on me.
Oh, and I just found out that one of my friends is moving to WISCONSIN.
Why?
His dad got a job there. God. What's so great about Wisconsin, anyway? I mean, no offense to all the Wisconsiners out there, but I prefer here, right? I'm sure you guys say the same kinds of things about North Carolinians. But really, all that's in Wisconsin is cheese and some seriously frigid weather. Why would they leave me to go to Wisconsin? His mom hates being cold!

But anyway, that's pretty much what's new with me.
Yeah.
Life is good, except for a few little twists that aren't really supposed to be there.

What is it with people an giving out free candy?? You would think we got enough of it at Hallowe'en, but no. Parents who spend their spare time complaining about how obese society is getting fill their kid's baskets once again to mark the rising of Jesus. Can't we find a better way to do that than hunting for plastic eggs filled with enough sugar, hydroginated oils, preservatives, dyes and artificial flavorings to kill off our entire nation? But no.
The definition of tradition: It was like that last year. Complete with clogged arteries.

For mainstream America, Easter is like a christian Hallowe'en, complete with dressing up and baskets of candy. The only real difference is, Easter is pastel, and christians don't beleive that you go to hell for celebrating it. Depressing.
Candy is candy is candy, right? It doesn't matter if it's sold in orange and black and purple, or if it's sold with little pink bunnies all over it. IT'S STILL SUGAR, PEOPLE!! Guess what? It doesn't matter! Easter candy kills you as fast as Hallowe'en candy. Really. Pastel bunnies not withstanding.

Happy Easter, by the way!
(Had to end on a cheery note)

Why is it never easy to get to a foriegn country? Could someone please explain that to me? And why do all of those trip-counselor ladies sound so premenstural when they tell you something's wrong? Do they get paid to be nasty? No (well, maybe). Do they get paid to help us? No. Do they get paid to help the airline fill seats? Bingo.
Bunch of jerks.
I mean, God forbid that it should be easy for me to get to Austria with my choir, mother, grandmother and brother, and then go back with just my mother, grandmother and brother. Ohh, no. Easy is not allowed. That model is SO outdated. No.
Expensive is allowed.
Difficult is allowed.
Complicated? We got that one covered.

Yeah.

Okay, done venting. Have a nice day, please come next time!

Well, let's just say that the first Oliver music rehearsal was...It made me apreciate my director and my accompanist. Choir is so much easier when you have a director who knows what they're doing, and an accompanist who can PLAY THE FLIPPING PIANO.
DP and Ferny, if you ever read this...I love you guys. You are awesome. And why? BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING, FOR PETE'S SAKE!!!
Now, our music director, let's call him Joey, is great. He has a marvelous tennor voice. He is very patient and understanding. He also has whopping zero experience with directing, and totally can not control a crowd. He also has some continuity issues. For instance, he sings a note, and then has us come up three steps above. Why not just give us the stupid note?!!? PLEASE. I BEG you. We need someone who can play at least chords. Just chords. We can get by from there.

Well, I finally got my bio up on the Road Less Traveled web site (www.roadlesstraveledtheatre.com).
For those of you who have not kept up with my exploits into the world of theatre, the Road Less Traveled is a theatre company that is setting up a branch where I live. And we are very excited. Verrrrrrrrrry excited. Oh, yes, we are.
Oliver is going brilliantly, by the way. No body is completely off-book yet, but dad and my brother are the closest.
I don't know why, but I am very happy today. Maybe because it's Saurday.
Happy Saturday, people!

Life+Mine+Now(2)=BORING. And I think I speak for all who have something to look forward to, but also have a great big patch of NOTHING on their social callendar between imminent Joy and/or intrigue, and now.
One of my friends is turning Sixteen. SIX. TEEN. Only two more years till college SIXTEEN. Driving after 9:00 legally SIXTEEN. Becoming even more adolecent than she already is SIXTEEN.
And I only have untill Sunday to get used to it.
Why do people insist upon growing up?? It's outrageous. Really. They should have been brought up beter or something.
Have the common courtesy to let us get used to it at least, for Petes sake!