#Goals

It's all well and good to say that I have goals, or #goals, or whatever. The only thing is I can say I have goals all day long until I'm blue in the face because I never, ever ever accomplish them. I don't know why, it's like some faulty wiring thing or something where I just don't give a shit. I know there are people who will lose it if they finish a goal and it didn't go quite as expected, me I'm over here like "oh ya,one time I said I was going to ____________, but then puppies or something came up so I don't care anymore."

Which is more than likely a fucking terrible mindset. So, even if I start small I have to be doing a better job than I have in the past, right?
So little goals, they're the kind that help you get your head straight, I think, again I'm new here. So if I start with little challenges for myself I can work up to bigger and better things.
 First one should obviously be I need to either become a better employee or find another job. Seriously, I'm awful and I get that, but once again, I have no motivation to do anything about it. If I were any other species besides human I would probably be dead by now, from the 'meh'-ness that I run my life with. I would have been eaten, or stranded on an island or nabbed by a hunter (here's hoping I'd be in a rich old mans study. At least that way I could say I ended up with a rich old man.).

Therefore, Attainable Goal #1: I need to get my fucking appearance together. Yes, that is insanely vain, I understand that, however I blame my laziness as well as the current culture. When I'm able to go everywhere in stretchy, soft, athleti-leisure "clothes" that are acceptable everywhere that's all I'm going to put on, and boy do I.

I have the most beautiful winter coat. It's red wool. It's full length. It has a white fox color that nestles in and frames my face and keeps me warm and fabulous. It has black leather gloves that look soft and beautiful with it. It is winter time.

It looks abhorrent with yoga pants. It looks pitiful with knockoff Uggs. As a result of my want to be comfortable my beautiful winter coat has taken a back hook in my closet. Where it sits all by it's lonesome.

It didn't used to. If it was going to work or out for the night it was in great company with dresses that had sequins and wiggle skirts. All of the appropriate underpinnings were in place. After all, tights are terrible, they cut you off at the stomach and dig in and make you look lumpy and strange. They always sag at the crotch or they don't stretch right around your thigh and then you spend all day looking like an idiot that yanks and pulls their midsection up.   A decent garter belt and stockings will stay in place and make everything smooth and unless you get the errant pop of a strap, nothing is going to migrate.

Then you have to finish everything with Proper. Shoes.

Now, of course a six inch heel isn't a proper shoe, but the difference between a beautiful knee high boot and the floppy  brown shearling nightmare is incredible.

At this point though, it isn't even just the shoe. When I'm dressed correctly, everything is better. My posture, my attitude, my humor. It can't all be in my head that even in the darkest, coldest and ickiest of winters I'm ready to go meet a friend, or cook a delicious meal or just go outside of my house.

Instead.
I come home.
take off my awful "real people grown up" uniform.
Put on something else stretchy, stick my hair up and commence sitting in sadness.

So. First goal. Start dressing like a real human. It's going to fucking suck. It takes work, I get that. It's also going to suck because all of this time dressing in forgiving fabrics I'm no longer the same shape, spandex is like a grocery bag, it adjusts to whatever you put in it and you can just keep filling it up. So now I look like a stocking that's filled with mashed potatoes. That stops now.

Until the end of the year, it's real human time. If I can achieve this simple goal of being a person, then I know I can move on to bigger, scarier and more fun goals. Not to mention, why the fuck wouldn't I want to dress like a human? It's more fun, it's more colorful, it feels good to know that I've currated a beautiful wardrobe that's unique to me. Yes it's vain, and I don't give a shit.

My History.

Not where I've come from or things that I've done, no. I mean my Internet History. Which is seriously fucked.

We can start at the beginning which is that my internet history isn't usually something sparkling. Not anything that I would be wildly embarrassed to defend. Sure, there's a lot of creepy stuff:
Podcasts  about potential murderers, weird wikipedia articles , pictures of things  Ed Gein made with skin,  awful taxidermy, incessant watching of the Elisa Lam  elevator video and that post about Disney Prince dicks.

Like I said, weird, yes, but nothing I'm ashamed of or would have to defend. Enter Jerry Springer: The Opera.

Aside from the fact that the music is so hard I wanted to quit on the first day and just do costumes this show is jam packed with all sorts of weirdness. Never have I had to look at a Klan robe with so much scrutiny (and also realize that it's basically an angel costume, so score...sort of?), which have you looked up the Klan recently? They have ridiculous names that sound made up:

• Klabee - treasurers
• Klavern - local organization
• Imperial Kleagle - recruiter
• Klecktoken - initiation fee
• Kligrapp - secretary
• Klonvocation - gathering
• Kloran - ritual book
• Kloreroe - delegate
• Imperial Kludd - chaplain

That's right a KLEAGLE. Kleagle people, like a Klan Beagle or the mispronunciation of your junk muscles. "Hey I read in Kosmo how to improve my Vagina muscles through Kleagles." Gross guys. 

Now lets talk about the outfits because, really, for people that have a problem with tolerance they sure do wear some gay stuff. I don't  mean that in a jr. high boy insult sort of way either I mean look at this: 

That's a whole lot of purple satin for some people who have a problem with color and religious beliefs. Don't even get me started on that green, or is that emerald? Either way, I had no clue that the Klan loved them some lux fabrics. 

Speaking of things that are disturbing and you can't get back: 

What is that you ask? Oh let me tell you please. I'm not here to spoil any ones good time, I'm not. I also am trying my best to not judge something that I don't understand and that happens between consenting adults but those are Frilled PVC Clear Adult Diapers. Why you ask? I don't want the details but you will be able to see all that shit smashed into the wearers butt if that's what you're into. Look. At. Them. 

These are the things currently sitting in my Google history, which yes I can clean, and I can do incognito, but even worse than them sitting in my history is that I now have them sitting in my brain. They don't make brain bleach y'all, there are only so many kitten videos out there for that. 

Now excuse me, I have to go buy adult diapers and make my own rainbow KKK robes in Zak Farmer size. 

I'll just leave this here. 

It's starting with or without me

For about two weeks now I have been kept awake by a persistent nagging. It keeps me from focusing sometimes at work, or when I'm driving. It's even the fist thing in my head when I wake up I hear the chanting...

Jerry...

           Jerry...
                         Jerry!!!!


It's a chorus of rabid rednecks chanting over the sound of my brain flying at 500 miles an hour with thoughts like:


Angels? Angels. I have to figure out what style Angel we're talking here? Like Bible Angel? Victorias Secret Angel? Castiel?

Mary...disco Mary? Right? Mary should be sparkly and pretty.

Heels. Man heels. Loads of Man heels. At least two pairs...

Adult Babies? Wigs? Adam and Eve should be decked in leaves. Stripper gear. I need stripper gear. I need to make sure Steves head is  buffed. Nurses? Are there Nurses? Am I giving it all away?

My trusty sidekick in all of costuming has abandoned me for greener pastures and to pursue amazing opportunities (Get it Girl.) which leaves me to drive myself crazy and put clothes on everyone. We have 14 days until the first rehearsal. Time to get it.

Marcy this one goes out to me and you:

J-E-L-L-Oh Dear God, No!

I'm going to be honest with you: We open in 14 -ish days. When it's typed out like that it seems like "Ya, Sarah, that's like forever chill out". However when I look at it on a calendar it's seems like a non manageable brick of a teeny tiny amount of time left, which leave me like:

I've got the lines coming. I'm close but not as close as I need to be. Almost everyone has clothes we're just missing a few big pieces that I'm sure will get done in the next week or so. However I'm now suffering from mental anguish (dramatic I know).

Not having the script in hand and actually having "real conversations" on stage is incredible. Everyone in this cast is so stupidly fucking talented that I'm sure if we made people sit through a rehearsal they wouldn't think they were getting a bum deal by watching a rehearsal. Seriously, I'm stressing about my lines and then  you have Clyde who has his lines down AND plays the ukulele (spoiler alert!)
We have a freaking show!

While we have a freaking show I keep getting into my head and it's all character related. It's really strange to be playing a person that is real, and not just real, but someone who was still alive during my lifetime (not for long, but you know what I mean). I've played a character before that was based on an actual person, it was a bizarre and incredible experience to know that this womans family would be coming to see me portray their mother and grandmother (this took an even weirder turn when we opened the show and after what seemed like one of the most intense performances I was told that my character had died in real life as we took the stage....I know right.).



So I keep finding that I have like a million different things cropping up in my head:

I read this about Blanche and Buck, The scripts suggests it happened this way, The fuck is Scott telling me to do? My natural instincts are doing god knows what right now.  Oh no, some out of my hands cosmic weirdness just showed up when I opened my mouth. Did I have a stroke? What are my lines, Was that another persons line? Wait shouldn't I be more downstage? Was that my cue? Ooooo,stuff to play with, stuff to try, dowdy recommendation, did I get pants for so and so yet? Dinner. Yes, I should have Dinner. Aw, hell I forgot about this scene. And on and on and on and on so that when I get done with the day my brain is like a giant oozy jell-o mold.

Oh ya. That's a real thing and my stomach lurches every time I look at it's grinning fish face.

I need to breathe. I need to look at my lines. I need to eat dinner. I need to take extra long naps. I can fucking do this.

This post brought to you by the letter 'O'

Words. Words. Words. Words. Naw

This is the part that is my least favorite.

I have to be off book. When you get off book, everything that you've been doing is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. I know I'm pretty adept at having a script in my hand all sneaky like and tying to do stuff, but it usually comes across as awkward and messy.

And I'm usually no where near as well dressed as this corgi.

I know that the minute that script goes away I can play and play. I'm no longer clutching my safe script in my hand like it's some sort of rainbow, glitter, stuffed manly unicorn named Rex (shout out to Rex, thanks for the snuggles). My brain, has no interest in this, it's just sitting in my skull going "Hey, man you spent waaaaay too long not using me and abusing me so I'm going to be a little slooooooow on the uptake." (incidentally, I think I just realized that the inside of my head sounds like The Dude as a muppet.) and that is not going to work for me, I'm not getting any younger here.

Some of it comes from taking the time to actually sit and work on it. I just have to tell myself that I have to do it, which means when I have a free minute I have to tell my self: "Self, I know you'd rather spend this free minute shotgunning beers while napping and doing crossword puzzles on a pile of kittens, but you need to hop to, get that shit memorized." (It's never actually that fun when I have free time, there is napping and kittens, okay it's a full grown cat but he's really good at naps)

If there are any tips and tricks out there, I would like them please. All of them. Every. Last. Trick. 

Now excuse me while I get back to doing other stuff, like finding time to make a dress. 

Naw, I know what I'm doing, but they have these for EVERYTHING I couldn't pass it up! 

It starts with a Venti....

...iced coffee with an extra shot of espresso and a grande mocha-y, whipped cream-y blended delicious heavenly treat thing around 10:45 AM

Labor day. 

Then Marcy and I hoofed it to the Jo-Ann fabrics and crafts as Labor Day sales are the best at fabric stores. There we encountered a gentleman patiently waiting for his wife, after overhearing what we were working on he showed us a picture of his grand father arresting Machine Gun Kelly in 1933, super cool. Dude emailed it to me. 

Oh hey notice how all of the police officers aren't wearing uniforms...

Then we stood in an extremely long check out line. The only thing that made it longer was a gremlin hell beast that had sobbed the ENTIRE time we were in the store. That fuck topped out at well over a half an hour, which is about 25 minutes longer than it needed to be doing anything.

I will openly admit that I gave that little bitch some side eye the likes of which he couldn't even comprehend, which caused it to hide behind it's awful mother.

Pictured: Actual photo of Shitty Child.

Next we punched it over to SLU where we frolicked in the child free world of costumers on their "day off" (It's funny, because there's no such thing). Pants were found. Suspenders dug through. It was a grand time had by all.

Remember earlier when I said that fabric stores have the best sales on Labor Day? I need to amend that statement to:

 Hancock Fabric jizzes all over Jo-anns face when it comes to sales.

The pattern we already bought? We paid 11 bucks for it. 

At Hancock...1.99. Not to mention 50% off fabric. 

Which is huge.

Why is this huge do you ask?

Oh I don't know...

Maybe because some ass hole decided that Bonnie needs to wear some fancy dress.

I have never in my life bought 20$ a yard fabric...until yesterday. 

After sticker shock and amazing coupons we trucked it over to what will undoubtedly be the next thrift store in the St. Louis area to close: SAVERS! 

For their out of control, one of a kind, you have to slap yourself in the face to believe it could be real, 50% off every damn thing in the store sale. 

Don't forget to bring your walking shoes because you will park half a mile away.

Also, don't forget your mace, bear or otherwise you will have to deal with over zealous old women.

Oh and let's not forget your patience--because yes, you are working, and yes you are measuring mens shirts, and no thank you guy with the eyes that are a little too light and unsettling, neither one of us really wants to be hit on in a thrift store. 

Thanks though (coincidentally that's the second time that's happened at the Savers...something about chicks measuring mens shirts and the smell of lysol I guess.).

Ya, you're cute and all but there's just something not quite right here...are you even old enough to drive?

We had done it. 

We had saved so much money. 

...all for the price of our sanity

and we had never really had that any way, right? 

Leftover pizza. Nap. Repeat. 

Oil Can!

Remember that time that I get to do new and exciting theater? The time that I get to play an amazing part based on an actual woman who was a total badass? And remember that time that I haven’t had to learn new music for anything in over a year….? (Record scratch sound for emphasis please)

But seriously...no idea. 

That’s right. I am out of shape. Woefully out of shape. When your body is out of shape, you can tell. You can feel it, you can see it. It’s wicked obvious.  Like this here, usually that man possess an ass that I want to gently gnaw on, here I want to take his blood pressure because I’m genuinely concerned.

I think there's probs an "I am the Fatman" joke that can be made here, but I don't want to make too much fun of someone who was once arrested for assault...of his own mother.

I’m vocally fat.

I am vocally picked last for dodge ball.

My voice is stained with Cheeto dust and code red mountain dew.

I think sometimes that I have a bizarre form of seasonal affective disorder, I’m fine with the winter, I love winter, scarves are great and I have a fur collection that would make a hairless cat jealous. No, in August I become a hideous zombie that drags its ass around. I don’t know if it’s the weather or that there aren't any holidays in august (except my birthday which is totes a holiday) but my brain just turns off. It’s like in some sort of awful sleep mode. Which means now the time has come for rehearsal and I have to dust off the cobwebs and add some wd-40. I need a training montage for my brain, but you can’t just put it in a grey sweat suit and expect it to box meat in a deep freezer. I have to hop in and stretch and condition or I’m going to get left behind in the dust.

Oh ya, and I have to find clothes for everyone…

Except for Patrick Bateman. He gets no clothes. 

 That’ll help for now I guess….