Let's set a few ground rules.
I've had a crappy week. I mean, CRAPPY. Like you read about. Viewings and funerals and emotional conversations and nightmares and meetings and missing meetings and sleep deprivation and talking to my hospitalized grandmother on her birthday was all topped off by the kicker, being told I was going TO WEAR A SWIMSUIT in the show, trying on said swimsuit, pleading for a sarong, and I'm pretty sure annoying the hell out of the costumer.
Which breaks the one of the cardinal rules of theatre - Don't piss off the costumer. Or the stage manager.
You'd think it would be something like, 'Don't forget your lines," but oddly enough, this isn't the case. ;)
The swimsuit, of course, led to a spiral of self loathing and cellulite-hating. Even though I'm on the HGC diet and spend an hour a day on the elliptical, (there is only so much one girl can do when it's this far gone) I'm still feeling generally fat and ugly and wondering if even auditioning was a bad idea. (Leaning toward HELL, yes.) I haven't burst into tears or anything, but I've considered fashioning a homemade cellulite-sucking device. I won't lie.
But let's face it, I'm crap with power tools, so doing the best I can with what I've got is going to have to do.
Now onto something more constructive: Having gone to more funerals than I ever thought I would in the past few months, I morbidly present to you some:
Guidelines Rules That Will Not Be Broken When I Die or I Will Haunt You All
* No one is going to line up look at me in a casket. I find this social custom to be horrific in every way. I'd much rather remember the deceased the way they were in my head. Smiling laughing, giving the finger, whatever. Nolan, however, wants to be propped up, grinning and giving a double thumbs up. Like he is in his facebook profile pic. *shakes head*
* In fact, I'm to be cremated, please. I have a petrifying fear of being buried alive. Yes, I'm an organ donor, and I know I'll be dead, but I'm claustrophobic and I've seen enough zombie movies to think there's a chance that might happen to me. Go ahead. Judge. Nolan has consented to being cremated as well, but he insists that our ashes are going in the same urn and that our friends have to drive to Big Sur on a windy day to sprinkle our ashes. Sorry.
* No one is allowed to speak at my funeral that DOESN'T KNOW AND AT LEAST PROFESS TO LIKE ME. There is nothing worse than a pastor at a funeral missing the mark COMPLETELY.
* In fact, let's skip the church service altogether, go to a bar and have a party. On me. I'll leave a little extra for that to happen. You can talk about what a pain in the ass I was, tell stories and get hammered. No one is allowed to have tequila or squash.
* If you don't like me, you can't come to the party. Suck on that.
* There will be no poetry read at the party unless it's a limerick.
* The limerick has to be dirty.
* The only music will be classic rock with the one concession to Amazing Grace. In fact, maureen is in charge of all funereal playlists. Apologies and congratulations.
Alright, I think that's it. It's enough rules and griping for a Thursday morning, in any case.
And a zillion points to anyone who can tell me the title of the movie without googling the LJ cut!
Have a cellulite free day,
Carrie Leigh
Which breaks the one of the cardinal rules of theatre - Don't piss off the costumer. Or the stage manager.
You'd think it would be something like, 'Don't forget your lines," but oddly enough, this isn't the case. ;)
The swimsuit, of course, led to a spiral of self loathing and cellulite-hating. Even though I'm on the HGC diet and spend an hour a day on the elliptical, (there is only so much one girl can do when it's this far gone) I'm still feeling generally fat and ugly and wondering if even auditioning was a bad idea. (Leaning toward HELL, yes.) I haven't burst into tears or anything, but I've considered fashioning a homemade cellulite-sucking device. I won't lie.
But let's face it, I'm crap with power tools, so doing the best I can with what I've got is going to have to do.
Now onto something more constructive: Having gone to more funerals than I ever thought I would in the past few months, I morbidly present to you some:
Guidelines Rules That Will Not Be Broken When I Die or I Will Haunt You All
* No one is going to line up look at me in a casket. I find this social custom to be horrific in every way. I'd much rather remember the deceased the way they were in my head. Smiling laughing, giving the finger, whatever. Nolan, however, wants to be propped up, grinning and giving a double thumbs up. Like he is in his facebook profile pic. *shakes head*
* In fact, I'm to be cremated, please. I have a petrifying fear of being buried alive. Yes, I'm an organ donor, and I know I'll be dead, but I'm claustrophobic and I've seen enough zombie movies to think there's a chance that might happen to me. Go ahead. Judge. Nolan has consented to being cremated as well, but he insists that our ashes are going in the same urn and that our friends have to drive to Big Sur on a windy day to sprinkle our ashes. Sorry.
* No one is allowed to speak at my funeral that DOESN'T KNOW AND AT LEAST PROFESS TO LIKE ME. There is nothing worse than a pastor at a funeral missing the mark COMPLETELY.
* In fact, let's skip the church service altogether, go to a bar and have a party. On me. I'll leave a little extra for that to happen. You can talk about what a pain in the ass I was, tell stories and get hammered. No one is allowed to have tequila or squash.
* If you don't like me, you can't come to the party. Suck on that.
* There will be no poetry read at the party unless it's a limerick.
* The limerick has to be dirty.
* The only music will be classic rock with the one concession to Amazing Grace. In fact, maureen is in charge of all funereal playlists. Apologies and congratulations.
Alright, I think that's it. It's enough rules and griping for a Thursday morning, in any case.
And a zillion points to anyone who can tell me the title of the movie without googling the LJ cut!
Have a cellulite free day,
Carrie Leigh