License to Kill

Hopefully there will be no killing. Or maiming. But just to warn any of you who may be on the road in the Indiana area, I am now licensed to drive a 24 foot truck.
For serious.

We finished blocking Sleepy Hollow in a tidy 3 and half hours this morning. "Katrina! Brom! Keep it PG!" Whoops...giggle. Don't worry - by now I am very adept at identifying different types of castcrushes/showmances (I've had, what, a million, by this point) and this is definitely a Category 1, I-only-have-a-crush-on-you-when-we're-in-character situation, because although he's perfectly pleasant and I enjoy hanging out with him offstage, my heartstrings don't zing the way they do when he leaps over the fence in his knee breeches, swinging an animal pelt. (Sue me. I'm weird.) Category 1 castcrushes are totally harmless (really, they're technically charactercrushes) and in this situation (like in most) they just make the play better. They add a certain je-ne-said-quoi, but end as the curtain closes. Totally safe.

Now, a more dangerous situation: yours truly at the wheel of a TRUCK. Once the shattered pumpkin rolled accross the stage and the Headless Horseman vanished, the Other Actress, the House Manager and I were all sent to get our truck licenses. The Other Actress was born in Italy but raised in Santa Fe by her yoga teacher parents. She is tall, tan, curly-haired, freckly, and quick to laugh - she's a lot of fun. The House Manager looks a little like a short Jude Law if you kind of squint, and is CT-born football player turned actor whose dream is to work at Disney. I especially enjoy spending time with him because his first gig was in the Babes in Toyland Christmas Spectacular at Dollywood, and I LOOOOVE Dolly Parton. Look up "Dumb Blonde" - it's from Dolly's early years - so good. And the actor who plays my dear papa in Sleepy Hollow was in Best Little Whorehouse In Texas, so we've already had some good Dolly Parton singalongs. "And as for pimps! Pimps are somethin you don't need to get your daily bizness dooone." Anyway. I digress.

It took a subway and two buses to make it out past the airport to the Concentra Medical Center, where the required physical was taking place. The three of us settled down in the waiting room under a pile of paperwork for a long, long wait. I did get to hear all about House Manager's breakup with his Jehovah's Witness girlfriend, which was interesting, and watch some Medical TV, which included, among other things, a quiz on sunstroke and a recipe for heart healthy berry crumble. Finally they called my name: the nurse did height, weight, eye test, pulse, blood pressure and urine sample, then put me in a little room and told me to change into a hospital gown. I waited there, in the little room, alone, in my gown, for over an hour. I thought they forgot me, and kept poking my head out into the hall but didnt want to leave because, you know, of the open-back gown situation, but apparently, you just have to wait a really long time. 3 hours after the start of this whole situation, the doctor arrived. Guess what you have to do to be able to drive a big truck:
1. Breathe deep into stethoscope.
2. Touch toes, squat, stand on tippytoes, balance on heels.
3. Say "right" or "left" depending on which side of your periferal vision the Dr. wiggles his fingers.
4. Have reflexes
5. Pass the whisper test. Doctor stands across the room, whispers "extravaganza." You say, "EXTRAVAGANZA."
Done.

That's it. No driving, no special truck questions, none of that.
Well, I mean, I still need to buy an Ashton-Kutcher-style trucker hat, obviously. But aside from that, I'm totally set.