Twilight Terror/Between Dog & Wolf

 I am afraid of the not-dark.

I have long struggled with anxiety around a certain time of day.  It took me many years to even realize it was happening, that there was a sort of pattern; I just thought I didn't like running errands in the late afternoon.

Which brings up another reason why it was hard to pin down:  it's not just the late afternoon.  It's not a time period as in "4 to 6 p.m.," but it's close.  Maybe it's better if I try to describe it by season.

In the winter:  it is late afternoonish, but the sun is still out.  In fact, it glints off the snow in such a way that the reflections seems to hit you directly in the third eye, causing an instant (stabbing) headache.  It's freezing outside, so you're wearing your winter gear, but you are also too hot:  sweating and stuffy inside your layers, both too cold and too hot.  The sun in too bright; the snow is too bright.  And no matter which direction you're headed in traffic, it's always rush hour, and it all hits you directly in the face.

In the summer and fall:  the sun is orange and of course it's hot.  You're stuck in your car for hours, but it never seems to cool off, despite the A/C.  This is the one that really gets me; I can't explain the terror, the throat-closing, dry-mouth-swallowing that accompanies the orange sky.

And you're probably saying to yourself, "That doesn't seem like anxiety.  That sounds like headaches and road rage and your body trying to regulate its temperature."  And you're not wrong.  These are all physical manifestations associated with my twilight terror.

But it's not just when I'm out and about between 2 and 4 or 4 and 6 (depending on the season).

I could be home in my climate-controlled penthouse, and I can still feel the anxiety crawl up my throat like bile.  I will close the curtains to get rid of those headache-inducing slants of sunlight, no matter the season, no matter if they're white or orange.

I will wander aimlessly across the three or four rooms, unsure of what to do with myself.  It doesn't feel "safe" (whatever that means) to sit for too long or to try to start (or work on) a project.  I can't focus; I won't let myself focus lest I stop paying attention to everything else.

For a while (several years or months), I thought I figured it out:  I usually had to be at rehearsal in the evening.  So those few hours in between work and other work (the theatre) were all I had to transition between.  Time for driving, changing clothes, eating food, saying hi and bye to the spouse, then leaving again.

Right?  That must be it.

And even though I like rehearsal (90% of the time; the experiences that make up the 10% are stories for another book), it is still hard to extract myself from home and leave out into the world again.  But it makes sense that I would feel unsettled; can't fully relax when you have to get up and go again.  Can't immerse yourself in another activity lest you lose track of time and end up late (my anxiety over being late is another entry entirely).

Except.

Except...it happens when there is no rehearsal.  It happens when there is absolutely nothing on the calendar (like during a pandemic).  I have to remind myself to breathe.  I have to literally tell myself that's there's nowhere I have to be.  But I still can't settle.  I am still nervous inside my own skin.

And I'm pretty sure I've always disliked this time of day/late afternoon/early evening, long before the days of rehearsals or dinners or evening plans.  Even as far back as 7 p.m. bedtimes and blankies and footie pajamas.

So the other day I watched In & Of Itself on Hulu.  I do recommend watching it; although, I don't want to overhype it (like I feel was done to me).  Many people say it's "indescribable."  I think it's more accurate to say it's difficult to categorize.  If there's a place where theatre, illusion, performance art, and therapy all intersect, In & Of Itself lives there.

The following is NOT a spoiler.

During his one-man show, Derek DelGaudio says there is a certain time of day, when the sun is at a certain point in the horizon, that used to be called "the time between dog and wolf."  The phrase means, because of the direction of the sun, you can't tell the difference between a dog and a wolf (or a friend and an enemy).  And that struck a deep chord within me.  The "golden hour" as DelGaudio said photographers call it (although it's about two hours) sounded exactly like my twilight terror.

And I then wondered that perhaps "my" anxiety isn't "me" at all.  Maybe there's not some triggering event in my past (that I've conveniently forgotten) to explain my daily dread.

Maybe, just maybe, it's something deeper, more primal, than that.  The recognition I felt listening to DelGaudio describe the time between dog and wolf certainly felt primal, almost visceral.  Maybe it's some kind of genetic memory related to the time between dog and wolf.  Some remaining piece of collective memory passed down that says, "This time is dangerous; be careful.  Be on your guard."  Some small piece of genetic material that doesn't know it's the 21st century and is still trying to propel my body to safety by telling my brain to be on high alert until the sunlight changes.

And that's a fascinating idea.  Not only is it fascinating, but it takes the burden off of me.  It isn't "my" anxiety because it's not anxiety at all but a relic of human beings long ago.  It was normal and meant to keep them safe.  Mine is just working overtime by a couple of centuries. Or a few millennia.

I'm Proud of You

or "Not My Love Language"

You know the 5 Love Languages, don't you?  In short, there are five basics ways we either express love or like to receive love.  They are, in no particular order:

• Physical Touch
• Gift Giving
• Acts of Service
• Quality Time
• Words of Affirmation

You can take a handy-dandy quiz to see how you view them or "what your love language is."  (There's also a book, but I've not read it; I just take the quiz every now and then to see if anything's changed.)  There is no right or wrong love language; it just makes it easier to communicate with your partner if you know the love expressions that are important to them (and vice-versa).  My top love languages are Physical Touch and Gift-Giving, FYI; the other three (Acts of Service, Quality Time, Words of Affirmation) all rank pretty low with me.

Now that that's out of the way, a story:

Last November, I was in rehearsal for a play, as I often.  We were getting close to opening night, and I had texted the boytoy, probably something like "headed home from rehearsal" or maybe even "working from today" or something similarly innocuous.  He texted back -- brace yourselves -- and I quote:  "I'm proud of you."

And reader, I was flabbergasted.  I was nearly speechless -- ME!  That's saying something.  Somewhere in there he also had written, "I know you've been working hard."

I was still mostly stuck on the "I'm proud of you" part, although the combination of the two statements had also given me heart palpitations.  It took me a moment or two verbalize what I was feeling and why I was so shocked.

1. It felt odd for him to be proud of me for doing something that I just do.  Theatre is my thing.  It's what I do.  And while I almost always work hard on whatever production I'm involved with, it isn't often hard for me to do (if that makes sense).
2. Has anyone ever told me they were proud of me for going to rehearsal/doing theatre like I do?  If they have, it was so long ago that I've forgotten it.

So for someone to acknowledge my hard work on what most people regard as "just as a hobby" shook my world a little bit, in a good way, especially when it's a vocation that takes up time I could be spending with him.  It was also a weird feeling because, like I said, Words of Affirmation isn't one of my love languages; in fact, it's probably rated the lowest for me because words are just that.  If you can't back them up with actions, I'm not interested.  But these words didn't feel all that empty, which was a pleasant surprise.

Since that day I've actually started saying "I'm proud of you!" more.  It's still a weird feeling, but in a different way.  But I like when people when they try to learn a new skill or continue to hone their craft or do major work on their mental health or make hard but mature decisions.  Those things should absolutely be encouraged and celebrated. 

I particularly like when people do things outside of their comfort zone; actually, I fucking love that, especially when it comes to working on our art.  I want to clap and cheer sometimes because I know what it feels like to do things that scare me.  And far too often actors/artists just start to rely on their usual "shtick" (whatever it may be) because it's comfortable and has been working tolerably well for so long, rather than pushing their own boundaries.  So I've changed my usual "Good for you!" or "Good on you!" (which I always meant sincerely) to "I'm proud of you!" (which I also mean) because all of the aforementioned things are rarely easy.

I haven't been saying to everyone because then it will possibly lose some meaning.  But all of this leads me to the thought that I may actually be becoming nicer....and that's a terrifying thought.
To quote Margo (The Magicians), "Don't you go accusing me of catching feelings!  It's insulting."

Feelin' Good

Sometimes you just have a good audition.  I mean, you feel good about it.  It's not a matter of "Yeah, I nailed it!" but a matter of feeling incredibly satisfied with whatever you did in that room for those five or ten or fifteen or twenty minutes.

I had one of those yesterday.

And the experience reminded me of a callback for a Shakespeare show I had a few years back.  Despite having a Master's degree in English, Shakespeare is not my forte; in fact, I've only done four Shakespeare shows in my 30-plus years of acting -- and that's including a high school production of Macbeth.

During that callback (for a queen!), the director asked me to use my lower register and diaphragm and really let my voice resonate in the space during the queenly monologue.

And I did.

And it. Felt. Fantastic.

Very powerful -- hearing those words ringing in my ears and bouncing off of the rafters in the room.

I didn't get cast in that show; I'm not sure I could have even done the show if I wanted to due to scheduling conflicts.  But that callback is one of the first in recent memory that I felt good about what I did, and I knew I'd continue to feel good about it, no matter the casting outcome.

I didn't necessarily think, "Oh, I'm totally getting that part!" or "I nailed it!"  But I felt immensely satisfied with what had transpired in those few minutes.

And that happened again yesterday.  It was ugly and real and raw, and I feel good about it.

That is all.  Carry on.

Obligatory cat meme

Book Review: A Hundred Essays I Don't Have Time to Write

100 Essays I Don't Have Time to Write: On Umbrellas and Sword Fights, Parades and Dogs, Fire Alarms, Children, and Theater by Sarah Ruhl
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

You MUST read this book. If you are an actor, playwright, dramaturg, technician, director, producer, stage manager, and/or lover of theatre/storytelling of any kind, you need to allow Sarah Ruhl's brilliant essays into your life. There are only a hundred of them (with the longest being maybe three pages); you'd do well to find the time.

Ruhl's wit and wisdom are apparent in the very title, and they carry through her offerings. One of this book's best qualities is that these are a hundred essays she "doesn't have time to write" -- meaning, none of them are too long, and Ruhl isn't necessarily digging for truth or trying to unlock the earth's great mysteries. She asks a lot of questions, but does not force any answers. Ruhl tells some wonderful, touching, funny stories (some of which may or may not have brought me to tears whilst on the treadmill at the gym), but she's not didactic. She'll make you stop and think about storytelling and theatre and drama and communities and our need for play and social interaction. But she'll never make you feel like she's demanding that you think about these things.

I didn't necessarily agree with all of the points she brought up (her bit on subtext in dialogue, in particular, seemed counter to everything I've learned), but I appreciated the opportunity to see another viewpoint and to maybe -- just maybe -- approach some of my own work differently.

I borrowed this book from the library, but that didn't stop me from highlighting a passage in nearly every essay, sometimes two! (On my Kindle, people, don't freak out.) I'm still going to have to buy it so I can go back and read those gems whenever I like.

Like I said, you MUST READ THIS BOOK. This book is a necessary tool of the craft, right up there with Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. The two shall be bosom companions on my bookshelf.

View all my reviews

Hedwig Recap

Lately in my theatre life, I'm on the lookout for things that are new (specifically, new to ME)  -- but more on that later.

Filed in this "new" category was Hedwig and the Angry Inch.  Hedwig is a fantastic show; I've known the soundtrack by heart for years.  The director of this current production wanted the show to be as interactive as possible, including but not limited to:  having the theatre's bar practically on the stage.  Hedwig runs 90+ minutes with no intermission, so there's not a good place for people to get drinks.  Plus, the setting of Hedwig is a dive bar, so the director decided he wanted to have a bartender "in character," so to speak, for the run of the show.  Enter Leonard.

It's been a lot of fun and a lot of work.  My bartending instincts are all about the work:  go, go, go!  Pour those drinks, get that cash, who's next in line? Move along, people, I ain't got all night!  The director said I could be a surly and rude bartender, so basically this was just me.  Bartending.  Exactly how I was when I was a bartender (my Unit can attest).

My actor instincts were at war with the bartending ones:  STFU, people, Hedwig is acting!  Why are you so loud during this intense, quiet part of the show??  Fuck, ice cubes are loud!  Get out of my way, patrons, I have to do acting things right now.

So yeah, a lot of work, especially on sold-out nights.  And trying to explain what I do in this show since I'm not in this show is also a treat.  But one of my favorite things, other than enjoying the rocking performances each night (whilst slinging drinks), has been the random shit people have said or done during this very unique show each night.  So here are The Hedwig Diaries:

The six people each night who ask "Is that supposed to be smoking?"  (The smoke machine is built into the bar; Leonard gets to push the button during "Angry Inch" each night.)  First I tried being polite:  "Yes, but thank you for noticing."
Then I started to get annoyed:  "Yes.  It's fine.  It's supposed to do that."
And finally, sassy:  "Something's smoking?  Oh, it's just me."

Patron (trying to find a seat before the show):  "Has anyone said yet that you're distracting?"
Me (with a shit-eating grin):  "Only in the best possible way."

Patron (after the show):  "You were great!  I could tell you were a woman from the beginning."
Me:  "Thank you...?"

Patron ordering a drink:  "I want a screwdriver.  Don't forget the screw!"
Me (after pouring drink):  "A screwdriver with extra screw," and I flipped him off while handing him his drink.

Patron ordering a drink:  "Do you have any fruit?"
Me:  "There's tons of fruit here.  Look around.  For drinks, though, I only have lime."

Drunk Patron in the lobby (with show still happening): "Oh, Firecrotch¹, you're awesome!"
Me:  "Thank you."
Drunk Patron:  "This is so much fun!  Are you always with them?"
Me;  "I do work often with this theatre, yes."
DP:  "No, but I mean, do you travel around with Hedwig and the band and stuff?"
Me:  (beat)  "They're all local actors who auditioned for this show and were cast."
DP:  "You mean this isn't a traveling show??"
Me:  "No, we're all local."
DP:  "Oh wow!  I'm a bit drunk."
Me:  "I know."
DP:  "And I love you!"  (hugs me and stumbles back to her seat)

It was one for the record books, doing everything from pouring drinks, headbanging to "Angry Inch," catching flying shoes, and trying not to ruin my make-up during "Midnight Radio."
No, YOU'RE crying!

I'm sorry if you missed it.

¹What Hedwig deigned to call me. Yes, really.

NPH as Hedwig performing "Surgar Daddy"
(At the 2014 Tonys, not Leonard's production)

Cysts, Cancers, and Colons

This week's post is brought to you by the letter "C"!  And yes, it is all about bodily functions, so consider this your TMI warning.

 I know I have written about my battle with chronic pain and ovarian cysts before, but there's more:  almost two years ago, I went to the doctor because, in the course of approximately two months, I had lost 13% of my total body weight, unintentionally.  And while it was fun for a bit that some clothes I hadn't worn in a decade suddenly fit again, any medical provider will tell you that losing even 5% of your body weight in under a year (unintentionally) is cause for alarm and, at the very least, a doctor's visit.  And it became less fun when the majority of my clothes literally fell off me.  So I went to the doctor.  And she began a series of tests after checking me physically for lesions and asking about my family medical history because, hey, unexplained weight loss is often a sign of cancer.

What followed were several blood tests, an X-ray of my chest, and a combination endoscopy and colonoscopy, among other things.  Leonard did not have cancer of the colon or even polyps, as originally suspected.  But the pain and bloating were increasing.  So we moved on to other parts of the body -- namely, the female parts.  Leonard's cysts were back in action, one ovary was larger than the other, and there was that pesky polyp (named "Ted") still hanging out.

The new OB/GYN conducted more ultrasounds, and a new (to me) procedure called a hysterosonography, and did I mention that Leonard was doing a show throughout all of this?  A showing  on a moving fucking bus??  So yeah, that hurt.  A lot.

Then Leonard had surgery to remove "Ted" (and his previously unnoticed roommate), check for endometriosis, and look for interstitial cystitis (cysts in the bladder).  There were no ovarian cysts at the time of surgery (they had probably burst or been reabsorbed), and surprisingly, no endometriosis.  My bladder was "okay but not great."  I was just barely at the standard level for number of mL my bladder could hold.  The photos taken showed lots of teeny tiny broken blood vessels, but nothing bad enough for an "official" diagnosis (just something to watch).  She did notice that my sigmoid colon "seemed enlarged," which can happen if one is often constipated.

Removing Ted & Co. made a huge difference in my quality of life.  I no longer have to call off of work because of my period and the pain it causes.  I no longer throw huge, dollar-sized clots or have to change a tampon at least once (sometimes twice) during the middle of the night because of the amount of blood I'm hemorrhaging.

After the couple of weeks it took me to fully recover from outpatient surgery, I felt good.  Really good.  I don't think I had realized how much pain I had been in until it wasn't there anymore.  I would put off certain chores like cleaning the litterboxes and taking out the trash not just because they're gross, but because they would exhaust me.  I could do them (and other things) now without feeling completely spent afterwards; I could bend and move without pain.

A few months after that, some of the pains came back.  And the bloating.  OH THE BLOATING.  Painful bloating where Leonard's clothes couldn't fit.  Pain and bloating associated with (painful) ovulation shouldn't last more than a day (often not even that).  The OB/GYN suggested a new GI doctor.  The OB/GYN also pointed out that a clean colonoscopy just means there aren't polyps in my colon; it doesn't necessarily mean my colon is working correctly or any number of other things.

After a series of three tests, the GI doctor diagnosed Leonard with SIBO:  Small Intestine Bacterial Overgrowth.  We've since learned that it's not all that uncommon.  2 weeks of antibiotics, 4 weeks of probiotics.  She also gave me a list of the "low FODMAPS diet."  (Don't ask Leonard what "fodmaps" stands for; I have no idea.)  The GI doctor cautioned that said diet must be followed strictly for at least four weeks in order to see if it's helping (it doesn't always help everyone).  As this was now November 2015, she recommended waiting until after the New Year so I didn't "ruin my holidays."  (Without even telling her, she seemed to know that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday just due to the food.)  Funnily enough, many of the low fodmaps foods are things I already eat, so I didn't have high hopes for that.

Fast forward to just last week:  the pains (on the left side) are back.  I'm not ovulating.  Maybe I'm just constipated?  I'm a little constipated?  Why would constipation cause a pain in that particular spot?  I wondered.  And then I remembered what the OB/GYN had said about my sigmoid colon.  So I did a quick Google search of female anatomy:  where is the sigmoid colon in relation to the ovaries?

Copyright Amicus Visual Solutions

Jesus fucking Christ, it's right there!  LOOK AT IT!!  The pain I've been having, on and off, for the greater part of three years may have been caused by needing to poop.

Okay, I'm sure there have been other factors; the OB/GYN was sure to point out that because so many things have similar symptoms and overlap (sometimes literally physically), that we have to peel back the layers one by one, dealing with each issue singularly.  But FUCK!  Couldn't someone have searched like I did and said, "Hey, look at that!  Those two organs are touching.  That probably hurts!"

A dear friend, in response to something else, recently said, "That's why they call it 'practicing medicine.'"  Indeed.

So those are my bodily functions for the past 18+ months in a nutshell.  I have gained back all of the weight I lost due to exhaustion and surgery, and I'm not happy about it.  Exhaustion is setting in again, and it may be time to reevaluate my schedule of back-to-back-to-back shows/projects in addition to a 40-hour work week.  But I won't be able to do that until my schedule is free again....at the end of September 2016.

Let's Talk Stalking

January 2016 is National Stalking Awareness month, and naturally, Leonard has something to say about that.  But first, a story.

Once upon a time Princess Leonard Leonora was cast in a show playing an actual princess.  The show came at a very difficult time; Leonora was in the midst of a very public, very messy divorce.  Leonora's ex had also been cast in the show; at the time of casting, they were still married.  Leonora's soon-to-be-ex-husband quickly dropped the show before rehearsals started, during the divorce process.  Leonora couldn't understand why.  Their characters barely had any stage time together, and when they did, they hated each other; where's the acting part?

The night immediately after said soon-to-be-ex-husband dropped the show due to impending divorce, I got a call (while performing elsewhere).  The caller was from one of my future cast mates suggesting we get coffee or lunch together sometime soon, since we would be working together.  It was at this time that my "silent alarm" went off, for a couple of reasons.

1. People using the cast contact list for non-work-related reasons should be treated with suspicion.  One must have a very good reason to use a work distribution list to contact a near-stranger for something personal.
2. For whatever reason, this man, this cast mate, gave me that knot in my stomach.  My inner alarm said, "DANGER WILL ROBINSON!"  And I should have listened.  But I didn't.

As I've written before, we (especially women) are too often taught to "give people the benefit of the doubt," even despite our gut reactions.  This man never once said the word "date," which was good because I had no intention of dating him, ever.  It's just a friendly coffee between friends, right?  Except we weren't friends.  I barely knew him.  It's possible that we could become friends during the rehearsal process, but we hadn't started rehearsing yet.  So against my better judgment I agreed to a coffee meet.

We had coffee on an afternoon, and it was weird.  I still had that silent alarm going in my head and gut, but I did my "due diligence."  I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  I had coffee; I was polite.  And I had no intention of ever doing more than that, besides doing a show together.

Now it's been some time since these events occurred, so you'll have to excuse me if they get out of order.

We started the rehearsal process, and this man kept paying me undue (unwanted) attention, but not always the positive kind.  One night during rehearsal he called a stop to the scene just as I was opening my mouth to say my line -- more than ten times in a row, at the exact same time every time, breaking character.  (Typically actors only stop when the director asks them to stop [or "hold"], and he was most definitely not the director.)

Before we broke for Thanksgiving, he brought me "gifts":  a sparkly glitter tiara that said "BITCH" on it and a copy of the book Even Cowgirls Get the Blues with the "instructions" that I should read it during our holiday break from rehearsal.

Once, he asked me if I could be backstage when he got done with a scene to help him "calm down" like "Alice would to Henry" (our characters' names).  I actually started to laugh out loud because I thought he was joking.  I, of course, said no; I was on the other side of the stage getting ready for the next scene (not to mention the outrageous creepiness of the request).

One night he claimed that the train of my dress was ruining the scene because it was in his way.  I offered to try to move it a bit out of the way, but we had a small 4x4 platform we were on; act around it.

During the rehearsal process, he started a thread on a local theatre discussion board about on-stage kissing, and then he forwarded to my e-mail all of the responses, first saying he was "just trying to give some advice."  When I asked him to please stop emailing me, he claimed (repeatedly) that I was "ruining the scene" (where we had to awkwardly kiss; the kiss was supposed to be awkward and brief).

One night at rehearsal he screamed at me from across a staircase (during a break):  "I'm just trying to discuss what's going on between us!"
To which I yelled back, flabbergasted, "There is NOTHING between us except air!"
"I'm just trying to be your friend!" he yelled.
"I'm friends with the rest of the cast, they don't feel the need to talk about it!" I said.

And that night he called my phone.  All of my phones.  My home phone, my cell phone, leaving a message on one, then calling the other when I wouldn't pick up, nearly non-stop for over an hour.

At some point during this, yes, I should have spoken up; I should have talked to our director.  But I didn't want to rock the boat.  I wanted a good show.  I didn't want to be accused of being a "diva," of being "hard to work with" (Princess Leonora no longer gives a shit about those things, especially when personal safety is on the line).  And I thought I could "handle it"; I thought he'd just go away.

Then a friend of mine lent me a book of his, Obsession:  The FBI's Legendary Profiler Probes the Psyches of Killers, Rapists, and Stalkers, and Their Victims and Tells How to Fight Back.  
I still get chills when I realize/remember that a book outlined, step by step, what was happening to me right then and there.  Here are some key points:

• The giving of unwanted gifts is literally a textbook sign of stalking
• Assuming there is a relationship where none exists is also a sign
• Explosive, unpredictable behavior (what the rest of us might call "mood swings")

The final straw was during a performance, in the dressing room, when he called me a "cunt" in front of the rest of the cast because -- frankly, I don't remember why.  I don't think it matters why.  The man had problems "acting around" my dress; it's not like he was a stable entity.  The director called my home repeatedly that night to make sure I was okay; she was very worried when she couldn't reach me (I was actually sleeping elsewhere that night).  She told me to just try to avoid him as much as possible (which I was); the run was almost over.  But not before he also contacted my ex-husband via e-mail to complain about what a bitch I was.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband had to call me up to ask if this was true?  Was I being a bitch?  Was I saying horrible things about him (the ex-husband) in front of the cast?

My response:  "We're going through a divorce.  Of course, I'm saying mean things about you.  Who wouldn't?"  Then I proceeded to detail all of the shit this man had done and said over the course of the past couple of months, ending with "this probably wouldn't have happened if you had not dropped the show.  I doubt he would have done it in front of you."

An immature response?  Absolutely.  I'm not going to defend that choice, especially as it's not the point here.

The point is:  I should have listened to my gut.  I should have spoken up at any point during the above actions.  If you feel uncomfortable around a person, it shouldn't have to take them calling you a "cunt" for people (including yourself) to realize something is wrong.  Stalkers are real.  Stalkers exist. Stalking is considered a crime in all 50 states. It is a very big deal when someone does not respect the boundaries you have set.  And it is a very big deal when someone exhibits just one or two of the behaviors list above, let alone all three.

If you feel uncomfortable around a person, if they are beginning to exhibit stalking behaviors, please follow these steps:

• Listen to your gut.
• Document everything.  
• Set firm boundaries with the person.
• It's very possible a person you are required to interact with does not realize they overstepped a boundary.  It's still okay to set boundaries and to let them know they have overstepped them.  That does not make you a bad person, a bitch, a tease, or a cunt.
• You have not overreacted.  It is a big deal, and if you don't speak up about your boundaries, no one will.
• Speak up to the person(s) in charge, louder and louder until someone listens.
• Go up the "food chain" if necessary.
• Even if you are not asking for repercussions for this individual, people need to be aware of what has happened.
• Remember:  it is not your decision whether or not the behavior is stalking.  You don't have to have the pressure to make that judgment call; that is the job of a law enforcement official.  It is your decision to realize that something is not right, that someone is overstepping your personal boundaries -- physical, emotional, or otherwise -- and to speak up about it.
• Everyone has the right to feel safe at their place of employment, in their homes, and frankly, in everyday life.

Leonard has more stalker stories, but the above is one of the worst.  I also have another story from a former colleague, but it is not my story to tell.  I can tell you that the part that made me livid was when our mutual supervisor (also a woman) basically told my friend to "not worry about it," that it "wasn't a big deal," to basically "just ignore it."

Fuck that shit.

Should someone tell you that, feel free to tell them that Leonard said "Fuck that shit!" I will happily send them a Strongly Worded Letter about it.

Ranty McRantersons: Baseball Edition

So there's a petition going around (I've seen several friends post about it on Facebook) to make the MLB's Opening Day a national holiday. Anheuser Busch has even endorsed it (hello, publicity stunt!). There's something about this stunt that I find beyond ridiculous, even offensive. "But Leonard, it's just a day off of work! Who doesn't want that?" I don't, not when it costs this much.

While I would never begrudge someone his or her enjoyable pastime, it is just that: a pastime. And while it is a colloquialism to say that baseball is the U.S.'s national pastime, it's just a fun thing to say; there is no official pastime. More than that, what about other pastimes? I'm sure the fans of football, soccer, hockey, basketball, etc. would like the openings of their seasons recognized nationally. Hell, perhaps I think National Knit in Public Day should be recognized officially so I can participate. Like many sports, knitting too requires skill, talent, dexterity, practice, eye-hand coordination, spatial recognition, and (gasp!) math.

And what about the myriad of different art openings? There are many, many of us who do not enjoy any sport at all. Surely those seasons and offerings should be recognized as a part of our culture, too.

But here's the part I really, REALLY dislike: I am tired of the inflated status sports continue to have, not just in this city, but in this country -- especially when budgets for arts programs continue to be slashed across the country, at both local and federal levels. Combine that inflation with the god-like status many players receive (or take upon themselves), add in the culture of hypermasculinity that pervades both college and professional sports, and we get things like accused rapists, murderers, animal abusers, and homophobes.
And I find nothing in that that I want to celebrate. That "free" day off of work isn't so free after all.

So, by all means, please enjoy your "sportsball" and your pastimes and your hobbies, but also please stop trying to foist them on the rest of us.
Thanks.

Why I Don't Say I'm an Actress

It took a number of years, but sometime between 2006 and 2008 (after my first paying gig or two) I stopped calling myself "an actress."  I call myself "an actor," even though some people try to correct me (usually older gentlemen, sometimes foreign).  Friend and fellow actor Anna quoted her own mentor as saying that in the original French "actress" is not simply the feminine version of "actor"; it's the diminutive form, meaning smaller, less important, even a little cutesy and condescending.

I trace it back to quote I once heard from Whoopi Goldberg:

"An actress can only play a woman.  I'm an actor, I can play anything."

I think she nailed it.  The word "actress" for me conjures up images of working as a waitress while not necessarily accomplishing anything.  In fact, some people automatically assume "actress" means "starving, out of work actor," like our dear Penny here:

The only thing worse than "actress," in my opinion, is "starlet."  A "starlet" may be working, but she conjures up images of casting couches, looking pretty but being dumb, and not being taken seriously.

So like Whoopi said, I'm actor; I can play anything.  To date I have played:

• 5 men
• 3 nuns
• 3 nurses
• 2 fast-talking Hollywood producers
• 2 Mormons
• 2 Upper East Side WASPs
• 2 fairy tale characters
• 1 Hollywood B-movie star
• 1 teacher
• 1 drag queen
• 1 homeless woman
• 1 bored Egyptian housewife
• a slew of chorus girls, dancers, and maids
• and 1 multidimensional hermaphroditic angel

ACTOR.

Girl Problems

Me:  "Sonofabitch!"
My Unit:  "What?"
Me:  "All of my make-up is at the theatre!"
Her:  "Oh noes!  You don't have any here?"
Me:  "Some powder and a lipstick."

Five minutes later, after applying said powder and lipstick...
Me:  "Wow.  That looks weird.  There's nothing on my eyes."
Her:  "You're sure you don't have anything here?"
Me:  "Yes!"
Her:  "Not in any of your bags?"
Me:  "I already looked.  I found one other lipstick."
Her:  "I don't believe you."

Two minutes later, after rifling through the bathroom cabinet...
Her:  "I can't believe you don't have any back-up make-up."
Me:  "It's all in that tackle box at the theatre."
Her:  "You're not very good at being a girl, are you?"

Say What??

It's hell week/opening weekend, kittens, which means I'm tired as all fuck.  The posts are going to slow down a bit as I open this wonderful, beautiful, surprisingly difficult, 90-minute show.  In the mean time, here are some lovely out-of-context quotations we like to call "Overheard at Rehearsal."

• "I'm not gonna tap dance for you!"
• "I think this might be a little 'Mrs. Garrett.'"
• "Do you think we're going to extend?"
• "Most of the audience will be filled with little old ladies hoping to see the nudity."
• "I'm not going to be naked."
• "I thought you were going to be naked?  I was promised nudity!"
• "He's just wearing shorts; Paul is going to be naked."
• "Speaking of extensions..."
•  "Can we fold the napkins differently?  Unless, of course, it's offensive to your delicate sensibilities."
• Director:  "Is it really 10:28?  That can't be right."
• Me:  "Well, you talk a lot."
• "'Mensch' was yesterday's word of the day." 
• "The higher the hair, the closer to God!"
• "If you have to cough, just take a drink of water and let it drop through your balls.

And, of course, one last one from my Unit just this morning, words of wisdom for us all:

"Don't go to work with your hair like that.  You'll be fired."