LA IV

Something is different! Something is so different! I have my daily pecan salad with the stand-ins and laugh and laugh. I have a corner, I know the routine, Grief is my friend, my real friend. JS has gourmet vegan pop-tarts delivered to set on the very day it is so hot I have to wear shorts. PP tells me my tatt is cute. It’s too good to be true. “You have nothing to worry about--you’re in,” this person says. In exchange I tell him how to date a girl. I thought our meeting was a dinner. It wasn’t. I drive-thru a quesarito and crunchwrap on the way home. Pair it with Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. It’s so hard to know if everything is small or everything is huge. Right now, everything is perfect.

I hadn’t gotten to try a couple vegan donuts at the shop I went my first weekend, and JR has several dozen catered. I eat four. A stand-in casually mentions, “Is it good? Because I saw you eating a chocolate one this morning.” I’m doing things right. Sometimes I laugh so sincerely. I have to write a fake Ted Talk about microdosing. I remember watching the Writer’s Room episode about Breaking Bad when the writer’s assistant explained how she had to research poisons. I remember thinking that that was the coolest job in the world—to research and write. Now I am deep into science journals about acid trips for the sake of a bit.

Late call. I FaceTime in for the rehearsal of my new musical. Chills. This thing I was told was impossible x3 is in front of me. I am walking through the middle of set and roll my ankle. It shocks me in an unfamiliar way. I immediately feel like barfing. I turn kind of white, and the makeup ladies ask if I need the doctor. I walk slowly to a stool and think, “I just need to take a few deep breaths.” Then everyone is around me and I’m on the ground. Once my vitals have been taken and it’s decided I pinched a nerve and I am half-forced to eat a sandwich, it’s almost nice. The producer and 1^st AD both assure me. AP lowers her voice and asks, “Wanna sue? I can tell you who has money.” There are new pages, and Cowsk says I can pitch alts. I write five, she picks two, and AP chooses one. My joke will be filmed. I have never acted so casual in my entire life. On the way home I think about how lucky I am and cry out of gratitude.

Thursday my theatre dream is on set getting the lay of the land. CJ is magnetic. She sits in a room alone with me. She speaks magically and openly and grabs my leg. I cannot help but tell her I wrote part of my graduate thesis on one of her plays. I watch my joke get shot over and over from different angles. RD says it is her favorite alt. AG laughs heartily. The night is long. What am I inside? I miss my boyfriend. I eat potato chips driving home to stay awake. I’m mad. Scene revisions come out at midnight, so in bed, in pjs I reformat and distribute.

Zumba morning. I am the only white person and I feel a kind of “Am I imposing?” but I stay because my body misses long workouts. I boost to a hip café for hemp milk espresso and rewrites of my musical. Late night and candy candy candy. Close to midnight JR insists we share a cookie sandwich. I have already eaten two, but what can you do? The pool is glowing under a balloon. The moon and palm trees.

Sat: I eat cashew yogurt while FaceTiming into my musical. Tear up at the finale. A friend texts me during one scene, and I respond, and then I wonder, “What am I doing?” and I feel guilty. Trashy donut shop with high-class treats. MB and I split eight. She has to go, and I want to write, but I can’t seem to. I tell myself I’ll leave once this guy buy $20 of lotto tickets at a time does. He doesn’t for hours. I find a stupid salad, go home and take a walk while all the dressed up people crowd sidewalks. I used to do this on the drunk strip in Pheonix too.

Morning is for the market, a misplaced run-in, church. A planning meeting with Elrey, a real life sunshine chat with a Chicago comedy early-move star, a podcast with a hidden treasure, email from AP, so I have to awkwardly sit in the living room and revise a scene while everyone else munches biscuits in the kitchen. It’s always like turning in a term paper, so I text Smirn to say we will not be having vegan dinner and instead going to an ice cream parlor for dinner. 

Alice in Ship Land: Last Dance, Last Chance for Love

A perfect port day. Aunt P was in Boston and met me at a coffee shop with a sweet outdoor patio for sun-sittin’! We meandered to the contemporary art museum to enjoy shadow plays and photographs. Got some green smoothie, some internet, some phone time. No pangs of urgency getting back aboard. I ate dinner alone at the diner, ordering a hack mish mash of sides to construct lime fish tacos. I wonder what people around me think. “This person dressed in almost pajamas came on a cruise alone and is working very hard to make okay food.” I holed up in the cabin, writing, writing, writing.

Ideally this would be a “FINAL CRUISE! LIVE LIKE WE’RE DYING!” week, but it just wasn’t. I was pretty happy! But, no bucket list items dramatically checked, no wild risks to take, no things I loved so much that the goodbyes would be difficult. In fact, the only thing I could think of even remotely in the “I want to say farewell” category was the flourless chocolate cake served Saturdays at lunch. This week it just wasn’t there. I shrugged my shoulders and chomped a Pop-tart while watching UnReal. I felt like I SHOULD go to Hamilton one more time, and the places I wanted to visit were closed. I ended up eating overpriced avocado rolls and scamming some internet. The highlight was actually the ferry trip itself. Sun, wind, and Final Fantasy on my Spotify. I watched my favorite part of the magician’s act at night, was invited to a cabin party, went for ten minutes, realized I actually had nothing new to say to these people I see every day, and curled up with The Night Of instead. I did make it to Zum Zum class (Zumba rip off) after promising my friend who teaches it for the past month I would. I showed up and danced in the front row since no one else would. I shimmied and chirped when told to. The class was really short. My friend hugged me after and said, “I’m still drunk from last night you have no idea.” #Cruisin

I was productive—writing every day, finishing my solo show, starting new projects, jumping in deep to my next screenplay, reading Sick in the Head, listening to podcasts. I have gotten SO much writing done since February. I got four essays published, finished multiple drafts of my screenplay, made a big fat revision of my musical, started a new play, lesson planned, and wrote a solo show. Most days I wish I had done more, but looking back on what I’ve accomplished while in the middle of the ocean, I think I did alright.

Monday Folds, MB, and I made a trip to St. George with some dancers. A great day beginning with a pleasant ride over, crumpets, and beaching. I got lobstered, but I also swam to a cool rock, and read a lot of Ta-Nehisi Coates (keepin’ it light on vacation! LOL).

I’m very into Dan Harmon right now. I finished Rick and Morty and kind of became obsessed with hearing how this self-proclaimed alcoholic functions. The final days feel strange. I am getting curious about the outside world again because it will be within my grasp soon. I start to have a bit of an irrational fear. I wonder if I will die before my contract ends. Like a “this cop got shot one day before retirement” situation. I think if I voice this silly thought it will melt away. I tell Folds and MB. They tell me it’s likely. “No!” I say over and over. At farewell steakhouse dinner we discuss what we’re excited to get home to. MB adds under her breath, “if you make it.” I explain the bit to the table and Tail, stone face asked, “What do you want done with your cadaver?”

We had a very special gift—our last show ever was our best show ever. Every seat taken. People piling down the staircases. Standing far far away. At least 1,100 very happy people/fire hazards. I got one minuscule catch in my throat as we sang the finale. It was a dream afterall.

MB and I do a bit where she’s my annoyed teenager Penelope, and I’m her divorced mother. She does Soduku and hangs it on the bathroom door pouting, “I just want you to be proud of me!” I respond, “Doing a puzzle doesn’t make you special.” She says, “This is why Dad left.” After the show we were gabbing and changing when she sat down on the bed with wet eyes. “I’m gonna miss you,” she said. We hugged. She sniffed and added in a sullen voice, “I don’t think it was your fault Dad left.”

The last two days expand into infinity.  I start actually counting the hours, but they still don’t pass any quicker. I have exactly one friend from the ship I have made on my own. He's a bar server from St. Lucia--the one who started "Smart Alice." Without much to do, I hang around his post for a solid hour one night. I learn tons about St. Lucia, his life, his plans. It's hard to crack into a real relationship with people you see in passing, with a major cultural divide, sometimes language divide, but I am leaving with one real pal and an open invite to his island anytime.

I see the dancers do their toughest show for the last time, have a Bachelorette viewing party with some of them, visit the crew pool again, pack it all up, sign the paperwork, do the last improv show all together. It's a good one. Everybody has a shining moment. The cast wasn't the cuddliest I have ever worked with, but it was one of the most talented. Tops and professional at that. The debark process is terrible--waiting and waiting and lines and tired and we don't even say goodbye is the truth of it. We all go through immigration at different times and in a puff of engine smoke it's over.

My bus to Maine is twice delayed. 7 hours. Arriving at 11 PM. A meth head sits behind me and the driver is an angry, jerky driver. I throw up in the bathroom. Of a Greyhound. I can't believe I'm not going back. I arrive at my next gig so late, so hungry, on a rabid hunt for food. Everything is closed so gas station burritos will have to do. I don't mind. There's something wonderful about it all. The harsh bright lights, the aisles. I am free. I am different and free.

Adventures in Gym Class: Part I

After the marathon I wanted a change from running. April 1st I purchased a month group fitness pass at the university gym. It's been an experience.

-My first step class I was told, "This is really an advanced step class..." I thanked the instructor, but I knew I could keep up. How tired could one get from merely stepping up and down on an itty platform? UM, A LOT TIRED. Also, so so confused. Like, how do full-on Britney Spears backup dances happen in a 50 minute step class?! Several times in the routine I completely lost the choreography and just marched in place.

-There is a Mennonite girl who takes Zumba with me. If you don't know about Zumba, it is Latin hip-hop cardio. Lots of hips. Ol' Menny busts it out like the rest of us--except instead of booty shorts, she's wagging a huge tan floor-length skirt.

-I've come to really love Step now that I have the basics down pat. It's a workout for the body and mind because you have to continually remember the combos while doing them. I like running to unwind, to clear my head, but this is a different type of head-clearing. Nothing in the world can possibly pop in the noodle when I'm rocking-horsing like a champion. It makes me sad these types of exercise are seen as "girly" and stupid because they're actually challenging in a completely different way than lifting weights (for example). More Dudes in Step Classes 2014.

-My fave class is Boot Scoot. Yeah, that's the real title. It's aerobic country line dancing, AND IT IS GLORIOUS. Apparently this opinion is not widespread because sometimes I am the only person in class. Besides the retarded man who sometimes joins, talking nonstop to himself as "Wagon Wheel" blares and I try not to grapevine into him.

Cruise Happenings in No Particular Order

The very first night of the cruise, we boarded, moved into our cabin, headed to dinner, went through a safety training, and then Safe Haven was playing on a giant outdoor screen above the upper deck pool. It was 40ish degrees out, but for some reason I really wanted to see this stupid movie.  I cuddled under some blankets with a mug of cocoa and watched the mountains float by.

Pookie watchin' sea lions.

-Zumba with (as far as I can tell) all the Koreans on the boat. Koreans love Zumba? One day I persuaded my mom and sister to come. It was the day there was a routine to "Gangnam Style," and what I wouldn't give for some video evidence of that five minutes of my life.

-Attending and regretting an event called "Pastry Extraveganza." It sounds as wonderful and horrible as you might imagine.

-Spending time at a window desk in a teeny "Writing Room"! Writin' plays 'n' stuff! My thesis--she's in full swing.

-Magic show! Saw lady get sawed in half and levitate.

-Laying on a hot rock in the spa while the boat hit some choppy waters. Being swayed on a relaxation stone--not bad.

-Goat cheese souffle. Fresh papaya. Oh, hi, mushroom gnocchi.

-Seeing lots of rad wildlife: caribou, moose, bear, whales, sea lions.

-Glaciers chunking off. They are bluer than you think.
-The wilderness of Liarsville, flannel dudes playin' guitar.
-Walking the top deck while the boat went full speed ahead toward Vancouver, my sister and I nearly flew off into the ocean, carried by blasting icy winds. I yelled, "I'M KING OF THE WORLD."

I was happy to come home--no more pants please--but I am also very happy I went. Coming home is nice:

Hill's doing.

Flowahs from my dude.

You're here. There's nothing I fear.

Shots

ACTF 2011--Huntie plays a man with one arm. I am his partner.

Today I took a Zumba class. I've taken Zumba before at the Y in the Midwest. There it was very salsa-y with a bit of hip hop. Here at the biggest party school in the country? Zumba involves a lot of butt-shaking and shimmies and the salsa beats are few and far between. More raunchtastic rap including a fully choreographed exploration of the song "Shots." You know the one? The chorus is "SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS!"

Anyway, based on the aforementioned facts, men rarely visit Zumba. But, today, we had a special guest. A 40something retarded man. This man really enjoyed Zumba, but he had no idea what he was doing. He kept approaching girls in class and starting to ask what to do, but the moves go so fast, even if we WANTED to help the man, we could not. He aimlessly bopped around and eventually picked up some weights and made everyone really nervous.

A room of young women shaking their booties plus one confused retarded dude pumping weights randomly. SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS!

Eventually, he tried to dance in front with the instructor, and she pointed him back to the masses.

In the locker room I saw the tube-top wearing, rap mouthing, instructor. "Hey," I said. "Way to navigate through an awkward class."

She blinked at me and put on a tiny pout. "You thought it was awkward?" She was bummed.

"Oh! No! Just...the company..."

She cocked her head to the side, bewildered, then decided to smile it off, and said, "It was really hot in there!" Then she skipped off.

I am a horrible person apparently.