Boston Blonde

Things I Like About Boston:
1. Cobblestones! Brick buildings! Total, total cuteness! Loves it.
2. No matter where I go, no matter how lost I get, I somehow always end up at Quincy Market. Not only does this mean I then know how to get home, it also means I get gourmet kettle corn. Although that's probably bad, because that probably means I'm training myself to get lost, like some kind of counterproductive Pavlov's dog experiment.
3. Even strangers are, in general, quite friendly and polite. They hold doors, they stop at crosswalks, they say "I don't know where you're going, young lady, but you look quite beautiful! Tell your parents to extend your curfew!" or "Good morning, princesa!" instead of "damn, bitch, you fine."
4. This place is dripping history. I practically tripped over the site of the Boston Massacre totally by accident. I was very excited.
5. Many, many women freely roam the city in jeans and sweatshirts. If I ever left my apartment and turned onto Bleeker looking less than totally fabulous and completely perfect, the fashionistas shot me looks that would kill. Sometimes, you just want to want to leave the house in sweatpants.

Things I DO NOT Like About Boston:
1. The motherfucking bus

So today The Producer was coming to hear us read before she finalized casting. Now, she was scheduled to come at 10, but we all had to be there at 9:30, just in case. Of oourse, on today of all days, the train behind mine broke down. We had to stop for 20 minutes to collect them. We then had to stop at every stop into Boston, arriving about 35 minutes behind schedule. Sprint from North Station to the Orange Line. Get off at Ruggles station, sprint down the escalator. En route, I completely trip and wipe out, scratching a giant escalator-shaped bloody gash in my leg from my knee to my ankle. I arrive down just in time to see the bus pulling away. I chase it. It doesn't stop.

Now, the bus is erratic, at best. The one I missed was late. And if I waited for the next one, I would have been way late for the meeting with The Producer. Panic ensued. Obviously, I decided to start running down the street like a crazy, bleeding madman with a curly prom-style updo (they made me do my hair to look more elegant) and stage makeup bordering on the hooker-esque (again, a mandate to look more elegant.)
I saw a glimmer of hope - a cab - and flagged him down. I made it to the doors of the rehearsal hall at 9:27, dragged myself up four flights of stairs and collapsed. By this point, all the hairspray had lost its hold and my hair was a stringy mess, my eye making was smeared across my face, and my scraped knees were still covered in blood. So much for impressing The Producer with my poise and elegance.

We waited. She arrived at 10:10. The Producer is kind of a big deal - she does all these broadway shows, and is currently bringing a play over from the West End, so she has a lot on her plate. For someone who is so respected/feared, at first glance she doesn't look that scary. She is very petite, and likes brightly colored capris, and has her nails perfectly manicured in a color that is probably called Come Hither Coral. She is, however, very intimidating, as she watched us all read in complete silence, staring, just looking, thinking, making us all sweat bullets. She and the Artistic Director left the room and had a 45 minute meeting, while we all sat there, about to vomit, convinced they were going to recast the whole thing, and we'd have to undo the blocking, and I had already fallen in love with all my parts and was sure I was going to have to give them all up.

The Artistic Director swept back in, and announced that nothing was changing for the girls. "I didn't think it would," she said, "I mean look at you! You're such an ingenue!"

So, naturally, I did what any ingenue worth her salt would do, and just batted my baby blues and smiled.