Some Place Where There Isn't Any Trouble. Do You Suppose There Is Such a Place, Toto?

This morning, one of our actors came to the brilliant conclusion that our little company comprises the Wizard of Oz. The Scarecrow, the Tinman, the Cowardly Lion, yours truly in braids and little red shoes (seriously, that's what I was wearing today), and although Other Actress is not mean AT ALL, she was wearing a long black dress...and is, though not wicked, certainly a little bit badass.

Like my Kansan alter ego, I too set out on a journey today from our new theatrical homebase of the Community College (woohoo tech!), not to see the great and powerful Oz, but to see the great and powerful HO. Not some sort of uber-prostitute, but some sort of electrical supply facility. This meant I had to drive the van, following someone driving the truck back to the Rider storage facility.

I know, right? You're thinking "Ooo, scary, you big wuss, a 15 passenger van." I know. Nuns drive them to charity events. Old ladies drive them to Bunco tournaments. Pedophiles drive them to playgrounds. It shouldn't be that hard. But keep in mind, people, the largest car I've ever driven is a volkswagen beetle. Yeah.

I felt the panic rise in my throat I started to back up. Because if I dinged someone else's car in the parking lot, the fine student body of The Community College would not hesitate to cut a bitch. And that bitch would be me. But no bitches were cut, and I turned on the radio, and it was Carrie Underwood. "Before He Cheats." And I knew I could totally do this shit. I mean, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie drive cross country on road trips all the time. Well actually, I can't remember if they actually drove. But as I cruised down the mean streets of the Quincy/Braintree area, I just kept telling myself to be Nicole. Because if that idiot can drive, I can drive. I lowered my fake D&G sunglasses and rocked it Nicole-Richie-style. And it was actually really easy. Before you know it, I'll be pulling into truckstops, hopping out in daisy duke shorts and a flannel shirt tied up just high enough to expose a double cherry tramp stamp or some other sweet tat, trading tales of the road with Bubba and the other truckers.

HO is a giant warehouse. I don't really know what it does. It is filled with machinery and big sweaty men in baseball hats and sleeveless tees. I was the only person with breasts for miles. And, surprisingly enough, hung over the front desk, is a 15 foot long poster of Ryan Evans - yes, that would be the obviously-gay-but-no one-can-say-it-because-it's-Disney brother of Sharpay Evans from the Highschool Musical franchise. Huh...
And then the sound system kicked into some sweet Backstreet Boys.
Appearances can be decieving.

All in all, it was a pretty easy day. We loaded in to our new theatre today (the set, the props, I finished organizing the wigs and costumes.) I didn't have to carry anything heavy (thank you, boys!) and love my sweet sweet costume job. The only show we ran was The Necklace, as it needs the most work because I am having some problems being elegant enough. I, of course, decided to show just how damned elegant I am by doing a little twirl and promptly walked into a step (the only feasible obstacle on the entire stage) and tripped. So dainty and graceful. Like a butterfly. Like the kind of butterfly that keeps flying into a light and hitting it. Like a dumbass butterfly.

As I do on anyday we miraculously get out early, I headed straight to Borders. In any bookshop, I am like a kid in a Garamond-type-set candy store. Well, more like a kid in an actual candy store, thanks to the free samples of rocky-road-bars and raspberry-mocha-lattes-with-whipped-cream barista boy was passing around on a tray. It's not just a bookstore, it's a sub-free cocktail party! I blame my subsequent book-buying orgy on the sugar rush.

Book-wise, I read what is generally considered to be crap. The marshmallow fluff of the literary world: Chick Lit. See, I already blew through most of the classics back in my I-Think-I'm-Smarter-Than-Everyone (and I've got the copy of Villette in my hot pink Lisa Frank sparkly unicorn backpack to prove it!) - phase, which lasted from approximately 1st grade to 10th grade, when my mother mercifully bought me a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary, and I realized 1. I was a pretentious asshole and 2. Reading can be like portable TV! So I never really made the transition into adult "literature" (not adult like erotica, obviously. I mean like good books grownups read.) Basically, if it wasn't written by a dead white chick in a corset or a live white chick in Manolos, I probably haven't read it. And I am totally fine with that. So I went on my merry way, picking up pastel hardbacks (why do I only like the hardbacks??? why?? they always look so much more interesting!) until I'd accumulated so many I had to buy a totebag to accomodate them. And then I almost crippled myself lugging them from State Street to North Station to Beverly Farms.

I am book-binger. Like I need some kind of Hardback-Chick-Lit-Shopaholics Anonymous Support Group. Or I will end up broke and hunchbacked.