That little bon mot is courtesy of our Director. The Director spent most of his life on a ranch in Texas, has a flowing mane of grey hair and favors oxford shirts and jeans. He calls everybody darlin', is a veritable font of these country-sounding type inspirational metaphors and similes, owns a collapsible neoprene lunch bag of which he is inordinately proud (and into which his fiancee always packs cookies, much to his chagrin) and blames any mistakes on the brain cells he lost while touring with Conway Twitty in the 70s. He is a total sweetheart. And, in situations like this involving shit and roses, absolutely right.
Today was one of those days that started off auspiciously but quickly turned inauspicious: the kind of day when a newspaper delivery truck driver belts out "Moon River" as you cross the street, and when one of the sketchy slightly drunk at 9am denizens of our beloved rehearsal corner of Dorchester tells you you look pretty, but by the time you've hauled ass up four flights of stairs you realize that not only do you have a toothpaste stain on your baby blue ribbed tanktop but that everyone can see your polka dot bra right through said baby blue ribbed tanktop, and it is of course way too hot to cover up the situation with the jcrew navy cardigan. Sigh. Of course, I did what any normal girl would do and channeled Carrie Bradshaw circa season 3 and pretended it was totally intentional. ("Dayglo underwear! Look into it girlfriend!" I've seen way too much of that show.)
Anyway, the proverbial shit hit the fan right after I tried to wash out the toothpaste and only succeeded in making my bra more visible (and somehow not removing the toothpaste.) The Producer arrived to see a runthrough of the West Coast Tour's show, stayed only for the first miniplay (we're talking like 10, 15 minutes tops) and promptly fired one of the actors.
I know. Holy shit.
They replaced him with our House Manager. So we have no more House Manager, which is sad because we all really like him and we won't get someone new to run the sound (another fun House Manager duty) for a week, but that's really not a big deal. The big deal is (one) holy SHIT that sucks for the guy who got fired (who was, by the way, really nice) and (two) everyone is FREAKING OUT. It is really, really scary. Everyone was just really shaken up by it. And I'm not even going to get into how freaked out I am that our run for The Producer is this friday. So friends in New York, if you've missed me, I may be heading home sooner than we thought. Because the guy who was fired was a recent college grad/last-minute hire. Basically, a boob-less, blond-less me. I'm trying to be zen about it, que sera sera, you know but it's still...scary. I'm just going to work even harder than before, i.e. stop reading Cosmo when I'm offstage and try to look more productive. Like I'll stretch or something.
We did get to have naptime, however, as due to a combination of intense heat, exhaustion, and nerves, everyone was sort of useless. That 20 minute nap was quite refreshing, I must say.
Tonight I watched Step it Up 2: The Streets with the family I'm staying with, and that movie just totally proved our dear Director's axiom. Dee from the streets had to deal with all this shit like getting kicked out of dance school and the mean dance gang leader vandalizing her studio and overcoming the socioeconomic barrier betwixt her and her boo, but in the end, she busted some sweet sweet dance moves in the rain. And got the guy.
Shit to roses. Even in The Streets. I'm assuming the same applies for the mean streets of Dorchester, MA.
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