The Most Jellicle, The Most Live

When we were young, my sister and I took many lessons of varying activities. I, being the animal lover, went through a horseback riding phase that I admittedly have not completely grown out of. Caitlyn, being a fairy tale princess, took ballet from the moment she could stand in first position. I eventually started to take dance lessons, too, as well as gymnastics, cheerleading, and a sad, pathetic fifth grade attempt at playing basketball.  (I scored four glorious points the entire season- two foul shots, and one basket that I think went into the basket because the ball bounced off of my flailing arm, and my teammates were nice enough to allow me the credit of making said basket.)

When we were about 13 and 15, my sister and I were taking dance lessons at a local dance studio. Now, when I say “taking dance lessons at a local dance studio,” what I mean to say is that sometimes on random Saturdays we would show up to the dance studio and learn sporadic 8 counts of choreography, and not return for a few weeks due to our busy schedules. The problem was, if you wanted to take dance classes with this studio, you had to keep your entire Saturday open. We were enrolled in jazz, lyrical, ballet, pointe, and tap. Five hours of straight dance with hour breaks here and there. If anything else conflicted- family reunions, gymnastics meets, cheerleading competitions, community productions of The Music Man, having a social life- you’d miss all of your classes for that week. It wasn’t like “Oh I can’t make it to jazz on Satruday, but at least I’ll make it to ballet on Monday!” No. If you missed one class, you usually missed them all.

Here’s the thing: I’m not saying that missing class was the right thing to do. It was actually the complete wrong thing to do. Now that I’m older, I can only imagine my instructor’s frustration while trying to choreograph 50+ teenage girls into some sort of physical product that didn’t resemble a chaotic frenzy of developing breasts, hips, and acne. ESPECIALLY when those 50+ girls had other activities to attend, and couldn’t even show up to class. She had made it easy for us- ONE day of the week you get to attend ALL of your classes, and be done with it for the rest of the week. How hard can that be, huh? To just make sure your schedule is clear for ONE day of the week? I mean seriously. How can you choreograph and teach people dances if they’re not in the room? You can’t. AND! Now that I’m older, I realize that my instructor was not only in charge of our dance educations, but she was ALSO in charge of putting on the end of the year recital, in which all of her hard work would be showcased on a stage for all of the people PAYING her to do the impossible task of teaching their absent children how to dance.

So I assume my instructor finally got so fed up with the whole ordeal that she finally just said “Forget you little whores. This year we’re doing it my way.” And at the beginning of that year, the infamous year, she made an announcement:

“Listen. If you’re in class, you’ll be in the recital. If you’re not in class, you won’t be. Each week, whatever we learn- if you’re here to learn it, you’ll perform those 8 counts in the recital. If you’re not here, you won’t be in the 8 counts we learned. If you happen to miss a week where we learn a BIG section of the dance, or if we manage to learn ALL of the dance, you simply won’t be on stage for it. This is how we’re doing it this year.” She then took a big swig from her water bottle. Looking back now, her water bottles were never clear. She always had a plastic jug that she brought from home. I now wonder what she was drinking…Well played, Miss Dance Instructor. Well played.

Well, this sent a shock through us all. She couldn’t do that! Could she? Would this mean that we wouldn’t be able to miss a SINGLE DANCE CLASS if we wanted to be in the whole dance at the end of the year?!?!

Being a virgo, someone who is a naturally organized person, I found my 13 year old self wondering… “So, wait… say someone misses a class. But they were here the week before that class, and the week after… does that mean they’re just going to have to RUN off of the stage while the rest of the group does the part that they missed… and then run BACK on as soon as they know the choreography again? That doesn’t seem very organized…”

And yes. Yes, that is exactly what that meant, and no, it was not organized. At all.

It also didn’t help that this year was the year that my sister and I would be missing the most dance classes of our entire lives. I don’t really remember why we were missing so much class… it really doesn’t matter for the story’s sake… the point is, we missed a shit ton of class. When we would finally show up to early morning Saturday dance, our friends would greet us like we were their long-lost family members from ancient times.

Prepubescent Girl: OH MY GOSH CAITLYN AND CAROLYN ARE HERE!
Senior In High School: WOW! WE HAVEN’T SEEN YOU GUYS IN MONTHS!
Prepubescent Girl: Do you still take class here? Or are you just visiting?
Other Girls: Wow! Your hair got longer! It’s good to see you! Carolyn, you got taller since the last time I saw you! Etc…

I can only imagine my instructor’s frustration when we finally DID show up for class. Now she had two extra bodies to put into this mess, and those two bodies knew none of the dance at all.

Every year, in community dance studios around the nation, small recitals are put on. Each year, these recitals usually have “themes.” Such as, “God Bless America”; “Five, Six, Seven, GREAT!” ; “Over the Rainbow”; and “STARPOWER.” This year, the infamous year of the changing eights, our theme was THE STARS OF BROADWAY. Each dance was choreographed to old Broadway hits, or songs that talked a lot about New York City. I vaguely remember the “advanced adult tap class” kick ball changing their way through Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” I also remember a beautiful lyrical solo done by a girl in a flowwy white costume to Billy Joel’s “New York State Of Mind.”

The one day that we came to class, we learned that our “advanced jazz class” was opening the entire recital with a tribute to one of Broadway’s longest running musicals, “CATS!” While we joined the group and started to learn the choreography, I started to realize something…

Caitlyn and I would be portraying cats. We would actually embody animals on stage, and people would be watching us, and no one would call us weird or “too old to be acting like an animal.”  I felt like my entire life had been leading me up to this moment. Years of making “nests” behind the couch and filling them with my beanie babies… crawling around on the floor like a psychotic lunatic while carrying aforementioned beanie babies in my mouth… watching The Animal Planet and perfecting my cougar call… all of these activities had led me to this SPECIFIC moment. I WAS a cat. I was a feline, and I was fabulous.

Needless to say, my freak show little self was extremely excited. Caitlyn, on the other hand, was more worried about her costume than the actual portrayal of a believable cat. You see, sometimes in these things, parents and their “talented” offspring are forced to order, buy, and sometimes even MAKE their own costumes. This time was no different. We were told we would need to order body suits and decorate them however we saw fit. During one Saturday, before anyone ordered their body suits, we were forced to write our names down under the colors that we wished to be. This was done in hopes of avoiding 27 black cats and only 3 yellow cats on stage.

I approached the list… I knew what color I wanted to be… I was hoping that there wouldn’t be too many names under that color already… but because I had missed so much class, I knew I wouldn’t be first to write my name down on the paper. My more punctual peers certainly wouldn’t let me have first cat color choice privileges. I had to wait my turn…. patiently…

With every girl that approached the list and wrote her name down, I knew I would have to settle for something STUPID like… brown. Or gray. I kept my fingers crossed, and prayed that there would be at least one space left for my name…

When I finally did get to see the list, these were the options I saw:
ORANGE:        BLACK:       GRAY:             YELLOW:       BROWN:

 

What. No, seriously… what!?

No where, not anywhere, was the “Siamese” option. Who were these people? What the hell were they thinking? You can’t have a production of CATS without proper cat colors!

I was so disappointed, I didn’t even care where my name went anymore. I saw that there weren’t many orange cats, so I scribbled my name down and went back to my place on the floor.

A month later, we received a package in the mail. At this point, I think all three of us- my mother, my sister, and I- had forgotten that we had ordered anything. When we finally opened the package and looked inside, my mom pulled out a brown body suit and an orange body suit.

Mom: Oh. Here are your cat costumes, girls.
Caitlyn: Oh yeah! We’re doing CATS. I almost forgot.
Me: (Holding up the limp carcass of my orange body suit) This is the literally the color of a construction cone.

My mom promised that she would help me make my costume not look as crazy-orange as it already did. We went to the craft store and bought a few boas for our tails, and, upon my instruction, grabbed a package of black feathers and some glue.

Mom: Carolyn, we should really just use paint to give you stripes.
Me: Paint is going to look two dimensional! I want the stripes to look like FUR. Okay!? That’s why we’re going to glue feathers onto me.
Mom: But honey, if you put glue on a costume that is supposed to stretch-
Me: I WANT IT TO LOOK LIKE FUR FROM OFF STAGE. If I can’t even be a Siamese cat, at least I can look like like I have fur!
Mom: Okay. Whatever.

That night I slaved over my costume, gluing feathers in all the right places to make me look like an orange tabby cat. It took hours of painstakingly accurate applications, but once it was completed, I was satisfied. Everyone else would be using markers for their costumes. Not me! Oh no. I was going to be different.

Finally the night of the recital arrived. Caitlyn and I rushed into the backstage area and started to get ready. The “costumers” (AKA a few selfless and good hearted parent volunteers) had printed out templates of cat makeup from the actual Broadway show that they were letting us go through and choose. Caitlyn and I chose our makeup maps, and proceeded to apply our feline faces.

I looked at my sister. Her eyebrows were drawn in along her nose and back out under her eyes- almost like she had purposely drawn raccoon eyes on herself, but then stopped and changed her mind midway through. She had painted stripes back along her cheeks with different colored lip pencils, and colored in her entire top lip with gray eyeliner. On the left side of her face was a patch of gray makeup, a patch that to us looked like distinctive feline markings, but to anyone else would appear to be physical proof of domestic violence.

I, on the other hand, had colored my eyebrows in the opposite direction- I had made them fan up and back, bleeding back into my hairline. I colored the bottom of my nose with a black eye pencil and drew a very prominent line down my upper lip, which then connected to another colored-in black triangle below my bottom lip. Every other inch of my face was painted white like a geisha.

I looked at Caitlyn. She looked at me. We stared at each other for a moment. There was silence. And then-

Me: You look FANTASTIC.
Caitlyn: Wow. We look great!
Me: Here, let me help you with your collar.

Finally, it was time to put on our body suits. Caitlyn slid into hers like butter melts into a pan. It stretched and clung to her like an athletic body suit should. Mine, on the other hand…

Me: Uh, Caitlyn?
Caitlyn: Yeah?
Me: Mine… mine isn’t stretching.
Caitlyn: What do you mean? It’s a body suit.
Me: Well, where I used the glue to glue on the feathers?
Caitlyn: Yeah?
Me: Well… it’s not stretching. In those places.

We then proceeded to RIP my costume apart and MAKE it fit onto my body. Feathers were flying everywhere. Caitlyn was laughing, I was hyperventilating, and all the while we were hearing the stage manager (Aka another selfless parent volunteer) yell down “TEN MINUTES TILL PLACES!”

Caitlyn: There! It’s on! Just leave it!
Me: But look at the feathers! They’re falling off! COMPLETELY! I look horrible!

Now, at this moment I suspect my sister knew exactly what she was doing… she then says to me…

Caitlyn: Well… we’re supposed to be ally cats, right?
Me: Yeah…
Caitlyn: Well you’ll just look a little more, forlorn.
Me: Huh?!
Caitlyn: Like… LIKE you’re one of those really aggressive cats that doesn’t take any crap from any other cats!
Me: But… that’s not the type of cat I rehearsed! I rehearsed being a very friendly cat, who actually gets along well with other cats, as long as the other cats aren’t trying to mate with me or steal my territory!
Caitlyn: Well… maybe you can just be a different type of cat. Come on, we have to get into places.

And while we climbed the steps to emerge onto the stage and start the preshow section, I was trying desperately to think about how I could possibly change my cat character to justify my haggard appearance. Could my docile original cat character have just gotten into a fight… and lost? NO! My cat character would NEVER lose a fight… Could I have mange? NO! My cat character cleans herself daily! No matter which way I looked at it, it was unavoidable. I was going to have to become… AN AGGRESSIVE CAT.

The lights came up. The music started. I did my usual lick the paw and pat my ear choreography that I had planned, but now I felt stupid- I was in my head, second-guessing everything I was doing…

Angry Me: Now come on. What kind of a cat tries to clean themselves NOW?
Nervous Me: I can’t help it! My costume fell apart!
Angry Me: A LITTLE LATE FOR THAT YOU MANGY BEAST!

I stretched my arms out in a child’s pose and arched my back.

Angry Me: OH so we just woke up from a nap now, huh!? IS THE KITTY CAT TIRED!?!?!
Nervous Me: I’m just doing the choreography… the way we rehearsed…
Angry Me: Your stretching is CRAP. This entire production is CRAP, so long as YOU’RE in it! Do you even KNOW the dance?!?!

And I think it was at that moment that I realized… I really didn’t know any of the dance. I mean I knew where I was supposed to be on the stage. I knew, vaguely, where I was supposed to enter and exit. But other than that? I was screwed. I realized, in that heightened moment of self loathing and hyperventilation, that I had been relying solely on the mirrors in our studio to watch and follow the other girls. And now that we were actually on the stage without any mirrors, I literally had no idea which 8 count came where, and where I was supposed to be.

It was every performer’s nightmare. Being onstage with a costume that is falling apart, only to realize you don’t know your part. I quickly looked over at Caitlyn. Surprisingly, she was already looking right back at me. And get this- she had the EXACT same, petrified, “Oh-My-Gosh-I-Literally-Have-No-Idea-What-Comes-Next” look on her face that I did.

And I believe it was at that moment where the term “Doing it live” comes from. Most people think it’s from the internet sensation of Bill O’Riley going nuts and screaming “WE’LL DO IT LIVE” at the news crew for having a faulty teleprompter. But no. No, friends, see… “Do it live” actually started with two teenage sisters attempting to dance in a small studio’s tribute to the award winning Broadway musical “CATS.”

So there we were. On a stage. Running around, trying not to bump into anyone else, mouthing the words, but we didn’t really know the words…

Yes we’re Jellicle cats
as Jellicle, do…?
Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats!
Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats!
I’m a cat, And I’m Jellicle too?…

Kicking! Running! Leaping! Pivoting! Pirouetting! All a half second behind everyone else on the stage. We looked like two genuine ass holes up there. At one point I even considered just jazz running off stage and staying there until the whole thing was over… Which, now that I think about it, I SHOULD have been doing during the parts that I didn’t know… I just didn’t know when to exit and when to come back on.

The only silver lining was that Caitlyn and I had been strategically placed in the back of every formation, so that even if we messed up, we’d be mostly hidden by the other girls on stage who had attended more dance classes than we.

Now this continued on for what felt like a century. But then! Lo and behold, at one point Caitlyn and I finally realized that the part of the dance happening was the ONE part that we had been in class to learn! Suddenly we weren’t following anyone because we actually knew the choreography! And let me tell you what… those four eight counts were the most on point, committed, and memorable eight counts of the entire CATS production. Why, you ask? Well, because for those four eight counts, every dancer on the stage was doing the same movements at the exact same time. I could just see our dance instructor in the audience, beaming with pride… sure, we were a little shaky to start. But we’ve got it now! WE’VE GOT THIS!

And then, just as soon as it had started, it ended- The beautiful part of the dance that we knew was now over, and we were back to square one.

Please, I heard myself pleading with God, please let this be over soon, and I swear I’ll never miss a dance class again…

Suddenly everyone in the entire company artistically collapsed down to the floor and rolled, and Caitlyn and I were left, for a split second, staring at the audience point blank. Just standing there. Two casual cats, staring blankly at the audience. We IMMEDIATELY dove down to be on the same level as the other girls… and then, something in my brain clicked, and for one more glorious second, I realized I KNEW THE CHOREOGRAPHY! I KNEW this eight count! I knew, deep in my bones, that on count EIGHT was a move where we shot our feet out in front of us, leaned back on one arm, and stretched our other arm up to display a jazz hand. It was kind of an awkward move, where you’re hitched between your hand and your heels, sort of showing your crotch to the audience… But it didn’t matter. The awkward body suit crotch move came on count eight! AND I KNEW IT!

And so, I did it. Five, six, seven…. EIGHT!

And as my crotch was displayed proudly for the entire audience to enjoy, and my arm shot up to display a perfect, triumphant jazz hand, I realized it wasn’t the only jazz hand! Caitlyn’s triumphant jazz hand shot up, too! The only problem was…

No body else’s hands shot up. Not one other crotch that wasn’t related to mine was being displayed for the audience’s enjoyment.

Later that night after the recital ended, my mother insisted that she grab a picture of Caitlyn and I in our cat costumes. And you know what? I’m glad she did. Because at the time, the LAST thing I wanted to do at the end of my recital was put my cat costume back on. But now that she has, I get to share this photograph with the rest of the world. Enjoy.

Sole Patch, the Aggressive Cat sits proudly next to Jellicle Slutter Baum.

 

I think our little an-jellicle faces really just say it all.

 

A Conversation With My Sister.

Caitlyn: Why don’t you audition for Star Wars Weekends with me? You could stand next to me so they could see our similarities.
Me: Yeah… I mean why not? It’s not like I’d have anything to lose.
Caitlyn: Exactly.
Me: But I couldn’t be Slave Leia.
Caitlyn: Probs not. They’d be like “Well… here’s the bikini from last year. Why don’t you try this on.”
Me: And I’d be all, “And here’s my cellulite from THIS year!” (Big cheesy smile and thumbs-up sign while sticking butt out)
Caitlyn: (Laughter)
Me: No seriously, who else could I possibly play, besides Jabba?
Caitlyn: Um.. Maybe you could be Zam Wesell.
Me: Who in the world is “Zam Wesell?”
Caitlyn: The bounty hunter! She’s the one who wears the sexy purple body suit, remember? She’d also wears that cloth thing that basically covers her entire face…
Me:
Caitlyn:
Me:
Caitlyn:
BOTH: BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH!!!!
Me: Can you imagine!?
Caitlyn: Hey! At least it would cover your nose!
Me: (Imitating the audition) “Mm, yes, Caitlyn looking good as always… and… Oh? We see you brought your… sister. Carolyn, is it? Okay, Carolyn if you could… just… Yeah, take your hand… that’s right. Take your hand and just… (Puts hand over bottom half of face.) Right, yes… and now, with the other one…? (Takes the other hand and covers forehead so now all that is showing are my eyes.) Yes… hm… Steph, could we work with that?”
Caitlyn: Oh stop! She’s really sexy, she wears purple!
Me: And her entire face is covered! It’ll cover the Crow Nose!
Caitlyn: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: Caitlyn if I didn’t get considered for something that covers my entire face I think… I think I’d probably just jump off  our balcony.

Annnnnnd for those of you who don’t know Star Wars, here is a picture of Zam Wesell. The girl I’d want (?) to play:

And, here is a picture of the character I would most likely play:

 

Maybe I’ll just use this picture as my headshot for the audition.

I Legitimately Sell A Product Called “Mr. Sticky” At a Store Called “B.J.’s.”

I recently just starting working a second job. This is because I am a 23 year old college graduate, and apparently that’s what we’re supposed to do… like, work multiple jobs until we can afford to, you know… be alive. Basically, I’m a live infomercial girl, but I think the official title is “sales representative.” I like saying that. Before when people asked me “So, what do you do?” I would say “I’m a singer/dancer!” Then, their faces would fade a bit, and to cover up their confusion, they’d all say some rendition of “Ooohh… that must be, fun?” or “How neat! Great! Cool! So, you like… get paid to… do that?” 

Now, when someone asks me “So, what do you do?” I get to say, “I’m a sales representative for a large outsourcing company.” Now people’s faces don’t fade. Absolutely not. Now they just nod in validation. I feel important. I feel like I’m finally a part of “normal” society. I have a “normal” job. I get to wear “business casual” attire and “sensible” shoes. 

But basically what I do is go into big, classy stores like Sears, K-Mart, and… BJ’s. (I am, unfortunately, not joking about this establishment’s name… It’s basically the southern equivalent to a Sam’s Club.) I put on little 20 minute shows selling different products.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that deep down, behind this writing, I’m actually feeling sort of resentful about my please-buy-this-product-so-I-can-afford-the-expensive-kind-of-cheese-at-the-deli job. But you couldn’t be more wrong! This job actually makes me very happy. While I may not be onstage in a theme park singing a blazing rendition of “I’m Walkin’ On Sunshine” to a giant golden toilet and a mob of attention-deficit teenagers (Please see former post: I’m Walking On Gibberish… WOAH) this job still fulfills my need to perform. After all, I’m in front of people. I’m talking to them, telling them how awesome something is, and at the end of my little pitch I get instant gratification. If I did a good job, they buy the product. If they don’t, it’s not like I “don’t get the part.” That’s the beauty of this job: I already have the part. I just have to make an adjustment or something in order for my performance to be more convincing and effective.

Right now, the company has me selling a product called… “Mr. Sticky.” (I am, unfortunately, not joking about this product’s name, either.) You may have seen this on TV, you may have not. Basically, it’s a life time guaranteed lint roller, which means “never ever as long as you own this will you EVER have to buy a refill!!!!” No, but seriously guys, this thing is pretty bad ass. It literally cleans anything- cars, glass, ceiling fans, counter tops, live dogs- and it never stops being sticky. You just rinse it off with water to clean it, dry it off, and BAM- it’s right back to being sticky again. The best part about the job is that I don’t feel like Matilda’s skeezy car salesman father or anything selling this thing. It actually is a great product.

So today was my first day of training. I’m paired up with one other representative, Jenny, who is an absolute angel. She’s one of the top sellers of our area, so I’m learning from the best. The whole day I was able to watch Jenny do her pitches, take notes, and learn by observation. I’m not completely memorized on my script yet (I’m close!) and in between her pitches we’d practice on my performance.

As always, watching human beings proved to be a very insightful experience. The first pitch, I was feeling pretty nervous and out-of-place. Obviously, I was in training, so… was I supposed to act like I wasn’t associated with Jenny at all? Was I supposed to “ooh” and “ahh!” when Mr. Sticky proved to be sticky again after just one rinse? I ended up just kind of standing off to the side, not saying much, and participating only when the entire group was expected to touch Mr. Sticky or something. (Yes, I do get joy from telling people to “go ahead and touch Mr. Sticky. You know you want to.”)

I learned a lot today from watching and listening, but the most valuable thing I learned today is as follows: People. Are. Nuts.

I think that’s the major lesson I’ve learned since graduating college. Going out into the real world where you’re exposed to… everyone… you start to realize that human beings are actually insane to the membrane. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

For example: Our first pitch today. I stood off to the side, quietly watching Jenny go through the live infomercial presentation. I was taking mental notes when I noticed that near the back of the group, a man who quite resembled Clint Eastwood in Grand Torino was standing, arms crossed, looking like he was about to shoot someone in the kneecap with a shotgun. I wondered what on earth could be the matter… didn’t he want the free gift that we offer everyone at the beginning of every sales pitch? Was he dissatisfied with his free gift? If he was so angry, why was he still standing here? He could leave at any time…

Clint continued to look at Jenny like she was his life-long enemy. I was actually pleasantly surprised when he didn’t punch the back of the woman’s head in front of him. Jenny was nearing the end of her pitch, and still, there Clint stood, arms crossed, brow furrowed, lips curved slightly downwards in a dissatisfied grimace. I mean if I’m being honest here, he looked like a rhinoceros concentrating on fighting off a rectal infection. I was expecting Clint to throw his hands up in the air, mutter something about the filthy Japs taking over our economy, and return to browsing the chainsaw section of Sears, when Clint threw his prune-like hand up into the air.

Clint: (sandpaper voice) I’ll take three.
Jenny & I:

Then, later, a large African American woman pushed her way to the front of the counter and took full advantage of Jenny asking her to “get a front-row seat.” Throughout the entire presentation, this woman looked like Jenny was selling the world’s first flying car for 12 bucks. I’m serious. Her eyes were as big as tea saucers. Her mouth could have been an acceptable storing place for a clementine. But the most amazing this about this woman is that she was completely silent. She literally did not make a SOUND. I mean usually, people will “ooh” and “ahh!” and answer the rhetorical questions during the presentation. Oh no. Not this woman. The only thing on her body that reacted to anything Jenny said was her face.

Jenny: And the best part about Mr. Sticky is that it comes with a lifetime guarantee, which means never ever as long as you have this will you ever have to buy a refill!
Woman: (Makes a face as if someone just told her she won a million dollars in a library.)
Jenny: Look! All you do to clean it is put it in a little hot water- see that?- and all of that hair and dust and debris just falls right off, literally falls off–
Woman: (Makes a face as if someone just showed offered her a ride on a real-life unicorn during the most somber moment of New York Ballet’s  production of “Swan Lake.”)
Jenny: So! You get Mr. Sticky, the Jr. Sticky, AND the GIANT STICKY all for just 29.99 today!
Woman: (Head explodes.)

I was completely positive this woman was not only going to buy a Mr. Sticky for herself, I thought she was going to buy one for everyone who she had ever been introduced to in her entire life. By the way this woman was looking at the presentation, you would have thought her day, her year, her entire LIFE had changed, all because of Mr. Sticky.

Jenny: Okay! So, I need you guys to tell me right now who wants one- you want one? You want one over there?- okay? Who else? You want one?
Woman: (COMPLETELY DEADPAN)

I AM NOT JOKING. It’s like this woman FROZE up when Jenny asked her if she wanted a Mr. Sticky. You would have thought Jenny asked, “Would you like to tickle my thighs near the employee entrance when I get off work?” with the reaction that this woman gave her. Absolutely appalled, absolutely offended, almost disgusted in a way. But I think the most interesting thing about this woman is that she didn’t leave. She was LITERALLY the last one to walk away from the booth. I mean just… just so awkward. It wasn’t even like she was standing around, debating if she wanted to spend 30 dollars on a lint roller. It was like she was sticking around (ha ha… see what I did there? Sticking around??? …sorry.)  just to give us the stink eye, after being COMPLETELY CHANGED by this lint roller’s existence.

And so, I reiterate: People. Are. Nuts.

I have to wake up early tomorrow to drive to another location that’s an hour away for day 2 of my training. I should probably go to bed. I mean, when I really think about it, my parents paid 40,000 dollars a year for me to sell a product called “Mr. Sticky” at a store called “B.J’s.” I should probably be well-rested for it.

 

 

Harry Potter and the Order of the Unemployed: My First Real-Job Interview

I walked into the Human Resources building at Universal Studios, thanking God that I didn’t die in a car accident on the way there.  (If you didn’t know, Florida drivers are actual psychopaths. It’s almost like you have to do the complete opposite of what would be considered “safe” on the road, and then you’ll fit in. I think it’s because there are so many tourists who don’t know where the heck they’re going, paired with a cult of bitter and resentful native Florida drivers who just want to get to work ONE TIME without any stupid tourist cutting them off. JUST ONCE! In result of this resentment, the Natives have road rage before they even get into their cars. They cut people off, tourists or not, before the people can cut them off. Both of these, when added together, result in the Obstacle Course of Death, which can also be called “driving on the road.” This Obstacle Course of Death is full of swerving and swearing, jamming on the breaks, animated choice hand gestures, and general road rage for everyone involved.)

So! Needless to say, when I pulled into my “New Applicant” parking space, I was feeling pretty victorious. Not only had no one beeped at me, but I hadn’t cut anyone off, or missed an exit, or turned the wrong way, or done anything that a native Floridian wouldn’t have done. And I hadn’t lost my life. (I still consider myself a member of Team Tourist, but only because I don’t know my way around that well yet.) It’s the small things, people.

I was wearing a knee-length pencil skirt style dress with a suit jacket. I had on the heels I wore for my senior Musical Theatre Showcase for Ball State. I felt like I was going into an audition, but I knew I wasn’t going to be asked to sing anything. I wasn’t even carrying a headshot. So that was all very confusing for me.

You see, this was my first EVER real job interview of my life. (Wait, scratch that- that was a lie. I interviewed for Applebee’s once. But that was for being a waitress.) This was like, for an actual company. I was wearing an actual suit jacket.This was actually an interview, and I was actually nervous.

Maybe it’s just me, but fellow performers, you can probably relate to this: I would rather sing 32 bars of some song and do a monologue for a room full of 500 people, than sit down one-on-one with someone who looks me dead in the eye and essentially asks me, “Why should I pick to give money to you and not the other fifty people in the waiting room?” I’m not used to defending myself. The only “defending” I do is in a call back setting, and even then it’s all through singing, dancing, and acting. At the end of the day, if I don’t get the job, I can leave and tell myself “Maybe I just wasn’t tall enough.” “Maybe I wasn’t what they were looking for.” “Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed that high C.” But after an actual real-life interview? You can’t leave and tell yourself you just weren’t tall enough, or that the girl who got the lead is probably sleeping with the SM or something. You just have to accept the fact that you weren’t good enough, end of story.

Knowing all of this, I walked into the lobby. There were two desks: a small security desk to the right, and a large desk with a saturn-esque planet looming over it in the center of the lobby.  Along the rings of the Saturn planet a sign read: “It’s a BIG Universe! Where do YOU fit in?”

I heard myself think, “I just want to get paid minimum wage to work in a gift shop.”

Security Woman: Can I help you?
Me: Uh yes, please. I have a scheduled interview appointment for 3:00.
Security Woman: Please fill out one of those little slips right there, and then take it to the big desk. Let me see your bag.
(I hand her my purse, and reach for a slip.)
Slip: WHY ARE YOU HERE? Please circle: Orientation. Second interview. Third interview.
Me: Oh no, I’m going to have to come back and do this again a second and third time? But… I don’t have another pair of “sensible heels!”
Slip: Scheduled appointment time ______.
(I put an X in that box, and write 3:00 in the space.)
Me: Thank you!
(I start to walk away.)
Security Guard: Uh, ma’am? Yoo hoo! MA’AM!
Me:
Security Guard: Uh. Your purse?
Me: OH! Oh, goodness. Thank you….
Me: Keep it TOGETHER, man…

I approach the planet desk, and see that on the other side is a seating area completely FULL of human beings who look either A. nervous, B. terrified, or C. jaded. Almost like the room could be separated into two groups: Those who have never done this before in their lives, and those who have done this for 17 years straight without success. I hoped they couldn’t smell the newbie fear that was surely permeating through my pores.

Desk Lady: (incredibly calm and collected, with a voice that sounds like a cheesy Yoga instructor on one of those 90’s straight-to-VHS fitness tapes) Hhhhhello. Whhhat can I do for you today?
Me: Hello! I have an interview appointment scheduled for 3:00.
(I hand her the slip to prove this.)
Desk Lady: (calm, sweet smile, paired with a slowly extended tranquil hand.) Whhhy yes, just let me take a look here…
(She types my name into the computer system and starts to click around. For a brief moment I fear that I won’t be in the system. What if I got the wrong day? What if I’m late? What if I’m too early? What if-)
Desk Lady: (Closed lip grin with relaxed, drooping eye lids.) Ppppplease take, one of these ffffffforms. Behind me, you will ssseee…. a basket of clip boards, and… Ppppens. Fill out the form, and then…. Returrrn the clip board and ppppeeehhn. To mmmme.
Me: … Thank you.

I grab a clip board and pppppeeeeehn, and manage to weave my way through the knees of others to find an empty chair. I haven’t seen this many seated, waiting, nervous people since the DMV. And then- I hear it. The familiar dialogue. The familiar music. The shouts of “Expelliarmus!” Harry Potter and the Order Of The Phoenix is playing in a small TV mounted in the corner of the room.

And that is the exact moment when I knew everything was going to be okay.

I wait for an hour. I see others come and go, people’s names being called, people who leave in large groups for “Day One Orientation.” (All of the unemployed hopefuls collectively shot those groups a steamy death stare.) At one point, a man in a suit came out and called for “Dominique.” At this point, two women stood up. One was a tiny twig of a shy white girl, and the other was a large, robust sassy black girl. They stared at each other for a moment, thoroughly confused. The entire room went silent. Finally, the black girl said, “Wait. Which Dominique?” After some clarification, the meek white girl disappeared to be interviewed, and the sassy black girl sat back down muttering, “This shit is whack.”

When I sat down, Harry was being seen off at platform 9 and 3/4. When I got called back to be interviewed, Harry was saying goodbye to Sirius at number 12 Grimmald Place after saving Mr. Weasly from Nagini. I was actually getting pretty emotional, watching Sirius assure Harry that he wasn’t a “bad person,” and that “The world isn’t separated into good people and Death Eaters. We all have light and dark inside of us, it’s what we choose to act on that makes us who we are…”

Voice: May I please speak with CAROLYN?
(I quickly get my emotions back in check and grab my forms and purse.)
Dominique: (muttering as I slide past her) What, she’s gets called before me? I was here first. This place, I can’t even, I mean- shoot. I’m done. I am DONE.
Me: Hello, I’m Carolyn!
Lady: Hi there, I’m Heather. Just follow me back here. Sorry about your wait!
Me: Oh, it’s not a problem!
Me: (thinking) You have all the time in the world when you’re unemployed. It’s fine.

Heather leads me back into a room divided into tiny cubicles. We slide into one of the little squares and sit down. Our knees awkwardly brush together because it’s such a close space. And so, the interview begins. I was so nervous for this moment that I spent the night before google-ing “top interview questions” and preparing my answers. I talk a lot about my time spent in King’s Island, how I was part of a “performance team” there. Everything is going pretty well. My mouth is a little dry from my nerves, but after a while I’m able to relax and just talk. Heather is a really sweet girl, and she seems to be enjoying herself as well. When she asks me why I’d like to work at Universal Studios, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

Me: Well, I mean, I’m sure you hear this all of the time, but I would absolutely LOVE to work in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I am SUCH a huge fan, I’ve seen all of the movies and read all of the books multiple times. That would honestly be a dream come true.

The interview continued, asking generic questions about my previous professional experiences, etc. Finally, I felt like the interview was coming to an end.

Heather: Well, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is we don’t have any merchandise positions available right now. The good news is, though… that with the Holiday season coming up, we will have some openings, and I believeee… that some of those openings will be in Harry Potter World.
Me: *Actual audible gasp.*
Heather: (Smiling) Soooo… I’m going to go a head and quiz you on your Harry Potter knowledge!
Me: (Finally truly believing that dreams really do come true, even when you’re not in Disney World.) Okay!!!!
Heather: Okay. So. What is your favorite book or movie, and why?
Me: That’s easy. For the movies, I liked Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Heather: (Taking notes) And why is that?
Me: I liked how they dealt with Harry’s darker side. It’s the first time that Harry is really starting to be affected by his mental connection to Voldemort, and I feel like they showed his struggle onscreen in a very accurate way. For the books? My favorite would be Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I liked how it didn’t follow the traditional format of “Harry goes to school, Harry solves a mystery, Harry comes face to face with Voldemort and defeats him.” It gave a lot of insight into Harry’s past, about who betrayed his parents, Peter Pettigrew, all of that.
Heather: Very good! Okay. So which Harry Potter character best matches your personality?
Me: (After some serious consideration) I guess I would have to say Hermione in the later novels. She’s a bit of a book worm and very driven, but at the same time she’s not a know-it-all. She helps Ron and Harry with whatever they need, and she’s very kind to others.
Heather: (still note-taking) Okayy… On a scale from one to five, five being the most, how much do you think you know about the Wizarding World of Harry Potter?
Me: Well, I don’t want to brag, but… I would probably say a 5.
Heather: Okay! Let’s skip some of the easier questions then. Let’s see… (She scrolls down) Let’s see here… okay. What is the instrument used to collect and store thoughts and memories?
Me: The penisive in Dumbledore’s office.
Heather: Very good! Lots of people don’t get that one.
Me: (thinking) How can you not know that?
Heather: Alright. What is the magazine that Luna Lovegood’s father writes for?
Me: The Quibbler.
Heather: Yes! Hm… What subjects do Hermione and Harry teach the other students, and where?
Me: They teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in the Room of Requirement.
Heather: You know, most people say they’re a 5, but they really aren’t. I’m impressed.
Me: Thank you! (thinking) Please just keep asking me questions about Harry Potter.
Heather: What publishing venue does Rita Skeeter work for?
Me: Oh. Um… gosh. That is a tough one. I know that one is in book 4…(thinking) I haven’t read that one in years. Shoot. I know it’s obviously not The Quibbler. The Inquisitor? Is that even a paper in HP world? Gah. (spoken) The Inquisitor? Man I can’t remember, it’s been so long since I’ve read that book.
Heather: The Daily Prophet.
Me: Of course!!! How could I forget that!? (Thinking) That is literally the most obvious answer. Great job, Carolyn.
Heather: Name three of the seven Horcruxes.
Me: Tom Riddle’s diary. Ummm… The ring that Dumbledore acquires. And the locket.
Heather: You are good.
Me: (thinking) Three out of seven isn’t very hard to do.
Heather: If you could have any career in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, which would you choose?
Me: I think I’d like to be an Auror. Learning all of the defensive spells would be awesome. But at the same time, I love animals, so teaching Care of Magical Creatures would be wonderful, too.
Heather: Well! You did wonderfully! I will definitely pass your information along to that department. We’ll contact you in the future if any positions open up.
Me: Thank you!

I shook Heather’s hand and walked out of the door, past the nervous and jaded people in the waiting room. (Thankfully, Dominique was no where to be seen. Apparently she had finally been called back for an interview.) I opened the door and walked into the bright Florida afternoon. And you know? For a first non-sparkly job interview, I felt good. I felt confident.

If only all real-life interviews were based on a knowledge of Harry Potter… If only.

The Best Gift of the Summer

Day 11 of the 90 in 90 blog challenge.

I knew this night was coming.

I tried to fight it off, tried to tell myself that it wouldn’t be that hard. I figured if I could say goodbye to the cast of “Chicago,” my boyfriend of two years, and my entire college life in one night, I could certainly say goodbye to these two morons and not be too damaged about it.

When I first started my summer here, I was afraid. I was scared of having no one. I was afraid the people in my cast wouldn’t “get me” due to my obscure, off-the-wall sense of humor, my obsession with carbohydrates, and my need to sometimes be left alone in a quiet corner with only my journal.

And then Dallas and DJ walk in. I see tall, dark Dallas and think “Please let him be straight!” Then he sticks a perfect triple pirouette and and says quietly to himself, “I’ve still got it, bitches!” when he doesn’t think anyone is listening aaand I give up on that hope. I wave at them and introduce myself. Dallas gives me the biggest smile in the whole world, and DJ politely does his adorable little DJ grin and half-wave.

We start rehearsals, tentatively singing our separate parts in fear of being judged, while secretly trying to hear everyone else’s voices in order to assess their talent. Dallas and DJ listen to me sing the big note at the end of “God Bless America.” Dallas says, “Gorge!” and DJ says, “YEAASSS.” I like them immediately. Later, while we’re taking a five minute water break, Dallas and I are by the lockers. I forget what awkward thing was said, but I did the “Brrrr” awkward moment sound effect, and Dallas burst out laughing.

“Deeje!” He called, “She just did the ‘brrr’ noise! She does it too! Oh, I’m gonna like you. I can tell.”

It was pretty much history from there.

I spent mostly every single night of this summer with them. I found we had the most fun when we did nothing at all. We watched ALL of the movies. We snuggled in bed and argued over who had to be big spoon. We figured out ways for the three of us to sit comfortably on a two person couch. We went to downtown Cincinnati together. We went to an adult novelty store together on the fourth of July. …I don’t know why we did that…

Slowly, our personal space boundaries grew to be non existent. I found myself being able to jokingly touch Dallas anywhere without it being weird or awkward. DJ and I discovered we both have an innate need to snuggle at least twice every three days. Walking into a room where one of them already was just felt good. It was like I could let out my breath when I saw one of them sitting on those disgusting, sweat-infested suicide-suede couches in the humid smelly armpit that was the Festhaus greenroom.

We taught each other things. I taught them how to cook Cajun vodka pasta. The two of them together continuously showed me how little I actually know about musical theatre. (Brrr…) Dallas taught me to stop thinking so much. He taught me how to let go and let my heart make a decision once in a while. I taught DJ that it’s okay, and even necessary, to be sad sometimes. DJ taught me that no matter how bad it gets, you can always keep going. You can be stronger than you ever thought you were. DJ and I taught Dallas how to listen to that little voice inside of his head, and to always be true to himself, even if that means making hard decisions. They taught me that nothing is planned, especially within relationships, and sometimes you just need to dive in. They encouraged me and listened to me, rooted for me, coached me, cried with me, snuggled with me, laughed with me, drank with me, slept in awkward positions with me, (and in Dallas’ case) showered with me. They plucked their eyebrows with me, yelled at me, told me when I was being stupid and over thinking everything, kissed me when I needed kissing, hugged me when I needed hugging, and left me alone when they knew I needed my space.

I’ve learned so much about myself simply by knowing the two of them. The whole summer, we’ve said that I am a complete mixture of the two of them. I’m mature for my age, like DJ. Like him, I tend to over-think everything, and rarely do I find myself diving into love with reckless abandon, like Dallas does. Yet at the same time, I’m so much like Dallas. Our crude sense of humor, our crazy violent outbursts, and our very deep need for emotional connection with those around us. Where DJ and I are tentative, once I get into a relationship, I am very much a Dallas. I’m passionate and wild with my feelings, never apologetic, and I love big or go home.

I’ve had an amazing summer, and I’ve been “#soblessed” to have been in the shows that I was in. I’ve been in and out of relationships, cried heaving sobs and laughed belly-cramping laughs, gone on road trips to cities I’ve never seen, reconnected with old friends, and learned (once again!) to never judge a book by its cover. And yet-

Having the two of them near me, to listen to my life problems and give me advice, to be there for me at a time when I felt like everything I knew was over and gone… That was the best gift I was given this summer.

It’s rare in life that you find people like them… People who are so open to who you are in that exact moment, whatever that means. They never judged me for anything I was feeling. Instead, they listened with open hearts and open minds and were always honest with me, even when I didn’t want to hear it. They forced me to get out of my head and encouraged me to take a chance on a relationship that proved to be just what I needed. And when I suddenly realized that I needed the chance to be alone for a while, they didn’t judge me or say I was making a mistake. They supported me.

And then… just when they had taught me to follow my heart once in a while and let go, they came through once again, and talked me out of making a decision that would have caused WAY more heartache than happiness. Just when I thought they had taught me everything they could, they showed me that sometimes, your heart should ache. And by denying that yearning heartache of the person it craves, a sense of strength and clarity can also arise from a place you didn’t even know you possessed.

It’s amazing to find a friend who knows you better than you do. What’s even more incredible is when you find two of them in one unforgettable summer.

And so, this blog post is for them. For the two incredible, inspiring, kindest, make-any-bad-day-better people I know. And as I sit in their apartment for the last time, Oxford curled by my feet for the last time, I see the summer I spent with them flash before my eyes…

I see us laughing on stage together.
I see Dallas farting on me right before rushing onstage to sing “Standing Outside The Fire.”
I see DJ and I on a picnic blanket in Eden Park, drinking lemonade and feeding sparrows out of the palms of our hands. I see them sitting at the kitchen table, playfully arguing while I silently wash their dishes with a smirk.
I hear Dallas’ big footsteps coming down the old creaky stairs.
I see the three of us sprawled out on a couch screaming expletives at each other for sharp elbows and sticky thighs.
I see Dallas getting a ticket for parking in a “non-parking space.”
I see DJ and I sitting on the platforms during the very first mic check, and I can still hear the strain in his voice, the interior war raging inside of him as he tells me why he’s not been himself lately.
I see the hurt in Dallas’ eyes when I tell him why I’ve been distant with him, and in that moment, I realize I was wrong.
I see us go from “Hey… do you mind if I have one of those…?” to dirty hands racing across cafeteria tables to fight to the death for the last fry.
I see the three of us rolling our eyes at the security guards.
I feel the sun on our shoulders as we lay by the wave pool.
I see Dallas glaring at my antique jewelry saying, “That has bad juju. I don’t like it. Get that shit away from me.”
I see DJ’s apprehensive first sip as he drinks his first glass of wine.
I feel Dallas’ wet hand grasping mine as we go down a giant water slide, with me dressed in a banana suit.
I hear the beat of the bass vibrating in my ribs while we watch a tragic drag queen croon Wake Me Up  by “Evanescence.”
I hear myself say through tears, “But I love him!” and Dallas answer, “If that’s how you feel, then go be with him!”
I see DJ petting a purring Oxford, and Dallas’ jade face glaring from the table.
I smell the Oreo truffles and the rotting rotisserie chicken.
I hear us burst out laughing, all three at the same time.
I see us hugging, and hesitating before letting go.
I feel them.

Even now, while they sleep in a separate room, drunk from the excitement of a new love that only took the entire summer for them to discover, I feel them.

They are the brothers I never had.

They are the open ears.

They are the look from across a room that can send me into a fit of laughter with the simple raise of a perfectly-plucked brow.

I’m pointing at Dallas.

They are my protectors.

They are my secret keepers.

Simply put, they are my friends.

And I love them.

Charmin: Enjoy the Go, While Watching Our Show

Day 6 of the 90 in 90 blog challenge.

A giant inflatable Mr. Clean is proudly standing 15 feet tall behind the sound booth. On the other side, framing the walkway, is a 20 foot inflatable bottle of Scope. Okay, I think. I can handle this. Sure, it’s P&G product placement. After all, P&G rented out the park today for their employees today. Let them have their obnoxious blow up products looming over the stage. That’s fine.

There’s also a massive tent placed RIGHT next to the stage. Almost as if they were setting up the tent, completely oblivious to the stage’s existence, and someone from King’s Island meekly went up to them and said, “Um, excuse me… I don’t mean to be a bother, but… Your giant circus tent? It’s, well… It’s kind of blocking this little stage we have here… We have shows on it on the hour, and we’d really appreciate it if you would…”
“WE ARE NOT MOVING THE TENT!”
“No, no, of course you aren’t, but.. do you think you could move it just a few feet to the left?”
“… Well. I GUESS we could do that…”

And so, the three ring circus tent was moved a few feet to the left, so that our puny little stage could be seen peeking out from behind.

That’s fine too, I tell myself. No one cares about the show, and that’s just fine.

But that’s not all. Oh no. P&G didn’t stop there. P&G decided that they needed to advertise one more product, a product that we all have probably used at some point in our lives… A product so soft, so clean, so refreshing….a product that makes you feel like you’re home, a product that has the ability to comfort you in times of great need…

Charmin toilet paper.

And just how did P&G decide to do this? Oh, you know… Just by casually setting up a GIANT golden toilet seat with a sign that says, “Charmin. Enjoy the go.”

So I’m onstage singing the duet with Nic to a crowd of maybe 20 people, tops. Suddenly, I realize that there is a giant line forming near the sound booth. I try to see through the crowd to make sure that everything is okay. What could possibly be happening that 40+ people need to talk to our sound technician?!

But then I see it. I see the giant toilet with the “Enjoy the go” sign. And then I see a mob of people LINING UP to take pictures whilst sitting upon the golden throne itself. I close my eyes and keep singing, trying no to laugh and cry simultaneously, trying to ignore the voice in my head that says, “More people would rather take their picture while pantomiming taking a sh*t on a giant toilet than watch you sing this song.”

So, I’m doing a pretty good job of, oh, you know, remembering my WORDS, and keeping it together. Nic’s trying not to laugh, too, and the way we work is if one of us is about to break, we’ll simply look away in the completely opposite direction and SQUEEZE the other person’s hand. That way, the other person knows we’re struggle bus-ing, and will behave themselves until we can get it together again. This entire process usually takes… I’d say, 20 seconds. Tops.

But as I squeeze Nic’s hand and try to look away from him, I’m forced to look back in the direction of the toilet. And what I see is truly baffling.

There is a small army of African American children running around, climbing upon, and sliding down the giant toilet. A few of them are on the seat, holding their hands up to their chests in tightly-clenched fists, and making faces that can only be described as “squeezing faces.” They are also all wearing squid hats that they won earlier by playing whack-a-mole.

I don’t burst out laughing, which is a complete miracle. Instead I just… close my eyes. I can’t look at Nic, I know I’ll burst out laughing because he’s probably witnessing the invasion of the squid, too. And so, I just close my eyes and sing. I sing the entire duet with my eyes closed. It is the ONLY way I am able to get through the whole song.

“I love you more today than yesterday.
But not as muuuch, as tomOOOOOrooooooow!”

Just, you know, eyes casually locked closed. Head completely turned away. Not even looking at the man who I am supposedly completely in love with.

In a few hours, I will drive my car to King’s Island. I will park my car. I will go through the little security gate where the large Asian security man will say, “Are you still here?” like he does every day, and I will reply, “Yes, unfortunately,” as I do every day. I may add, “But today is my last day. So I will never see this place, these people, or you, ever again.” And then I may skip away whilst screaming, “VICTORRYYY!!!!!!”

I will then go to the greenroom, clock in, and warm up. I will do my hair, put on my make up, and change into my costume. I will then do three shows, all with 30 minute breaks in between. And then, I will change out of my costume, clock out, go BACK through security, where the large Asian man will surely ask, “You’re still here?” like he does every day. And I will reply with, “You’re still asking that question?”

Then, I will swipe my little ID for the last time, throw my bag over my head, and run away screaming, “FREEDOM!!! FREEEEEDOOOMMMM!!!!!” I will then grab someone else who is leaving at the same time, shove their face between my two flattened hands, and kiss their squished pancake face fully on the mouth. I will pull away in passion, look into their eyes intently, and whisper to them as if we are the only two people left on the planet earth, “I’m free…”
And then I’ll get in my car and go to Wendy’s.

I’m Walkin’ On Gibberish… WOOAAH!

Day 5 of the 90 in 90 blog challenge.

“I don’t know if I’d rather be at home fisting myself, or doing this show right now.”

This is an actual quote from an actual cast member of “Hot Summer Nights.” The fact that sitting at home and fisting yourself could actually be a bit more enjoyable than performing the show, again, for the 708th time, should illustrate just how difficult it is to “keep it fresh” and “exciting” and “new.” I honestly don’t know how people on Broadway do it.

Actually, that’s a lie. The people on Broadway are in shows that actually have a plot. They get to tell a story every night. Not only that, but they get to tell that story to people who are paying BIG BUCKS to see them. They don’t have people who walk in front of their stage holding a giant reggae banana, pause for a moment as if to be considering their talent, dance moves, and worth as a person in general, and then walk away because they have something “better” to do.

I’m really not as bitter as I’m making this sound. I’ve really enjoyed every moment of this summer, even if I have been performing for dysfunctional, sweating, pissed off, trashy-tattooed humans who are gorging themselves on dippin’ dots and foot long hotdogs. There’s something hilarious about the ludicrousness of it all, and if nothing else, I’ve learned how to laugh openly at myself. Onstage. In front of an audience. Just, openly laugh out loud at myself, my life, and my choices.

Kind of like the other day when I just… decided to not know my solo. Literally. I don’t know if any of you have ever done this, but have you ever gotten up in front of people to do the SAME solo you’ve done perfectly 20 million times before, and suddenly, the knowledge of what comes next, the words, the melody… it all just WHOOOSH goes out the window? And you’re stuck there, holding your microphone all like, “Why is this happening to me?” But the music just keeps playing, and you know that whatever comes out of your mouth is just going to have to be good enough…

It happened during Walkin’ On Sunshine.

This is how it is supposed to go:

Me (Walking from platform to platform) : I used to think maybe you love me, now I know that it’s true!
But I just can’t spend my whole life just a-waitin’ on youuu.
Now I don’t want you back for a weekend, not back for a day.
NO NO NO!
Cause baby I just want you back, and I want you to stay!

What Actually Happened:

Me (Walking from the stage left platform to the center stage platform): I used to think maybe you love me, now I know that it’s true!
But I just can’t wait-! (OH crap, I said the wrong word, how am I going to make this rhyme now?!?) … for the… (C’mon, Carolyn, you’re a writer! Make something up!) …time, well, I’m sure… (I’m so screwed.)…. brudnle… (Oh!!! We’re making up a new language now?! Is that how you fix this problem? You’re a moron, do you hear me!? YOU ARE A MOR-)  …youuuuu…

Aaaaand in case you missed it! Here it is in its entirety:

“But I just can’t WAIT-… for the.. time, well, I’m sure… brudnle… youuuuu…”

I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m so ashamed. I just want to crawl under the platforms, curl up like a slug sprinkled with salt and die. Just wither away and die. I know better than to look at my castmates, for fear of bursting out into laughter or tears of shame, so instead I do the second most scary option, and look out to the audience…

Two large women sitting on a blanket are looking at each other. One of them mouths, “What did she just say?!” The other shrugs her shoulders and looks at me as if I just started screaming a Shakespearean monologue in the middle of Walkin’ On Sunshine.

At this point, the other performers are all below me doing ridiculous choreography, and they all just… stop. Kind of. It’s like someone took a giant syringe and sucked out all of their drive and confidence, and replaced it with a “what the hell just happened” serum. They all look up to me for answers. Matt is actually crying because he’s laughing so hard. He is having a hard time dancing because of his contracting stomach muscles. I’m so embarrassed and angry with myself, the part of my brain that tries to always be “one step ahead”  just gives up.

Me: (Looking to them with a face that says, “Yeah I just said some gibberish on stage. What? You think that’s funny!?!”) Now I don’t want you back for a weekend. Not back for a daaay.
NO NO NOOO… WOOAAHHH …NO!
I said BABY I just want you BACK and- (Oh sh*t, not again… ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME-)… I want you my waaaay. (OOOOOH, so we’re at BURGER KING now!?! Awesome. Yep. Great job, Carolyn. Yeah! Keep workin’ for that rehire.)

Only two more days. That’s it. Just two of them. In 48 hours, I will finally be done with my #themeparklife. I don’t know if I should celebrate, laugh, or cry. Maybe I’ll do all three.

Hot Summer Mess

At the beginning of the season, my head-hancho manager Kevin called me into the office. I was nervous because the last time I had been called into the office by Kevin was two summers ago, during which time we had to discuss sexual harassment. I could say “It’s a long story” but it’s really not, so I’ll clarify: My friend Megan and I had made a joke about smearing liquid nacho cheese on someone’s genitalia. The scene went something like this…

Megan: Hey! Anonymous Castmate! Come over here.
Anonymous Castmate: (Coming over to us.) What?
Megan: Let me smear this cheese on your d*ck. Ha ha ha!
(I burst out laughing at her random proposition. I then dip a part of my pretzel into the cheese. I proceed to imitate Megan.)
Me: HAH HA HA! Yeah Anonymous Castmate, come over here! HA hahaha!

(I am just realizing now that by re-typing this, we actually sound like prepubescent boys. I’m almost as embarrassed now as I was back then.)

So yeah. Anonymous Castmate was offended. Anonymous Castmate then proceeded to casually mention it to our manager, who then, by law, was required to tell HER manager, who was Kevin. The entire situation was blown completely out of proportion, and Anonymous Castmate later apologized because, according to them, they had “no idea that his off-handed comment to our manager would result in a one-on-one with Kevin. I’m so sorry!” And yet… it did. It all comes full circle.

So, needless to say, my heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. What could Kevin possibly want to discuss with me and only me?! I was the girl who never got detention. I was the straight A student who was a good role model. I even did my roommate’s dishes sometimes when things got to hectic in their lives!!! I started wracking my brains.

I haven’t been inappropriate, have I? I mean Dallas and I joke around, but I know for a fact he would never be “offended….” I haven’t even had a pretzel and cheese this summer yet!!!

I walked into the office. Kevin was sitting there in all of his head-of-the-entire-entertainment-department glory.

Kevin: Hey there! Come on in, Carolyn. Sit down.
(I sit down nervously, wringing my hands together.)
Kevin: How are you doing this season so far?
Me: Um… well, great, actually. I really like being in the country show. I love my cast, and our manager Amanda is awesome.
Kevin: Good, good! Well, listen, the reason I called you in here was…
(Suddenly, it was like his face was zooming-out backwards into a tunnel of black. My imagination started to run away with me as I imagined what I had done wrong, what I could possibly be in trouble for…)
Kevin: YOU CHANGED YOUR COSTUME IN FULL VIEW OF AJ THE SOUND GUY AND HE WAS OFFENDED.

Kevin: YOU SLAPPED LAYKE ON THE BUTT IN AN ACT OF ENCOURAGEMENT YESTERDAY AND HE WAS OFFENDED.

Kevin: YOU LICKED YOUR LIPS TO MOISTEN YOUR MOUTH DURING YOUR SOLO, AND THAT BEHAVIOR IS NOT “FAMILY APPROPRIATE.” I WAS OFFENDED!

Kevin: ….willing to swing into Hot Summer Nights at the end of the season? Chelsea has to go to college, so we need a replacement for the last few weeks.
Me: What? Oh! You want me to swing into Hot Summer Nights? Um… Sure!
Kevin: Great! Thanks, that will really help us out. Okay. That’s all.
(I start to exit.)
Kevin: And hey- great job so far this summer!
Me: (Completely shell-shocked.) Oh! Thank you! And thank you for asking me to swing in for Chelsea! I really appreciate it.
(I exit. I go puke in the bathroom. Not really, but that’s what it felt like.)

And so, relieved that I hadn’t OFFENDED anyone in the cast, I started to imagine what the end of my summer would look like. During our lunch break we would walk passed the “Bandstand” stage to get to the employee cafeteria. I would see Matt and the other Hot Summer Night’s cast members dancing and singing, completely giving it to five or six people on the blacktop pavement in front of the stage. Alright, I thought. I can learn that and do that. This’ll be fun!

The 5 Major Differences Between Being In American Country and Hot Summer Nights:

1. You’re outside. You thought performing inside a humid Panda Express and LaRosa’s pizza cloud was bad?  Now, combine those smells with the aroma of dirty diapers, murky fountain water, sweating guests, and the King’s Island Skunk. Stir gently, add sunlight and 92 degree heat. Let simmer. Waft generously.
2. You’re wearing shorts. While wearing a little blowy pink dress in American Country would seem cool, you’re also wearing capizio dance tights and a belt, which basically act like a dam for the sweat flowing down from your neck and back to just… pool around. Now, in Hot Summer Nights, you’re wearing jean shorts. Awesome, right? They’re comfortable and cool! Right?!?
Wrong. The shorts I was given were too big in the waist and too small in the thighs. So, the costumers worked their magic. They tacked the back of my shorts to fit my waist (score!) while also “releasing the seam” of the leg holes. This is a nice way of saying, “We’re trying to cover up your fat ass as best as we can.” (Note: I also can’t help but hear “RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!!” when I hear the phrase “release the seam.” In the case, the Kraken just happens to be my thighs. Awesome.)
3. There are more special effects in Hot Summer Nights. It was kind of a joke in the country cast that our “confetti cannons” got cut because they needed budget cuts somewhere to support the amazing costuming and special effects of the 70’s show. Throughout the season we’d make off-handed bitter comments like, “Well, maybe the end of our show would be a little more emotionally effective if we had our CONFETTI CANNONS!!!!”
Now, in Hot Summer Nights, we have CO2 cannons. They spit out little explosions of steam to make the show have an EXCITING and DANGEROUS feel. Awesome, right? Well… not when your sound technician forgets to “un-mute” the entire show, so one of your biggest cues gets cut during her “Oh my gosh why is there no sound coming out!?” moment, and you find yourself in a fully committed lay-back pose with your head arched back OVER the steam cannon… when it explodes. Just… take a second to imagine that one.
4. You have to learn the show by watching. I have always been a very physical learner. I have always learned by watching a person in front of me do the dance moves, and then I copy them. Also, I’m used to learning in a space that has a mirror. This helps the whole “judging myself” process, and aids in correcting my loose linguini torso and flabby chicken arms. Take both of those things away from me (the person in front of me and the mirror), and I can only imagine how ridiculous I looked trying to learn a show simply by watching it. Everything the dancers did, I had to do the opposite. I couldn’t mirror their movements to learn the show because then when I finally got onstage,  I would be completely backwards. And so, I stood by the sound booth dressed in khaki shorts and a green button up, probably looking like a spastic archeologist while I tried to retain some sort of knowledge of the show. Kids would watch me instead of the actual show, and they would point and laugh. Teenage black girls would put their hands over their mouths and lean into their girlfriends to say, “Is this bitch for real?” Grandfathers would look to the stage, then back at me, then back to the stage, then back to me in a head bob of complete and utter fascination and confusion. I had found a new low in my life.
5.) Rejection is a daily occurrence. In the Festhaus (the place where the Country Show performs) park guests are seated in front of the stage for three reasons: A. They want to watch the show  B. (the more common reason) they are eating their lunch and C. all of the above. This resulted in at least 10 guests at every show, because at any given point in time, 10 park guests were hungry. The Bandstand (the place where Hot Summer Nights performs) is a little different… The stage is positioned at the head of a giant fountain, so our backdrop is a lovely view of the cascading water. However, there is only pavement in front of the stage… just, a big open space of pavement. No chairs for tired feet. No benches for guests hungry for quality family entertainment. And so, this results in the ability to watch people openly and shamelessly reject you, while you are currently performing.

Cast: EVERYBODY’S WORKING FOR THE WEEKEND! (Punch! Punch! Punch! Punch!)
(Two guests carrying a giant gorrila in what seems to be a massive zip-lock baggie pause for a brief moment, to see what the five young adults on stage have to contribute to their lives.)
Cast: EVERYBODY WANTS A NEW ROMANCE! (HAIR TOSS! HAIR TOSS! HAIR TOSS! HAIR TOSS!!!!)
(The two guests place their gorilla on the ground and shield their eyes against the blazing sun to get a better look. Both of them look utterly confused.)
Cast: EVERYBODY’S GOING OFF THE DEEP END! (PUNCH! PUNCH! PUNCH! PUNCH!)
(The guests look at each other, as if to ask, “Should we stay and-“)
Cast: EVERYBODY NEEDS A SECOND CHANCE, OH! ( BIG DRAMATIC POSE!)
(“-No.” They collect their giant gorilla and continue walking on their merry little way to do… well, literally anything else.)

You know, it’s fine! The kids really do seem to like our show, and we do get big crowds after the fireworks at night! (A little voice in my brain is saying, “Yes, but that’s only because the fireworks are the last thing to happen in the park before everything else closes, so in a way, the only reason anyone stays to watch that show is because everything else is closed…”)

Only two more weekends. That’s all. Only two…. more weekends…

An Open Letter To The Kings Island Skunk

Skunk
Patch of Trees Behind Showplace Theatre
Dumpster #3
King’s Island
Mason, OH

Dear King’s Island Skunk,

Hello. You probably don’t know who I am, so let me first start this correspondence with a brief greeting and introduction. My name is Carolyn Barry, and I have recently joined the cast of Hot Summer Nights. We are performers at Kings Island, which is the very loud and probably stressful place where you have recently decided to reside. I am writing to you because I have a few concerns, and would like to discuss them in a professional and mature manner.

First of all, let us first address the fact that you are a skunk. Skunk, I don’t think you are aware of how uncomfortable you make people feel. Now, I’m not one to just “tell it like it is” to someone I barely know, as I feel that is generally rude and socially unacceptable. But I think I’m willing to make an exception in this case. Skunk, correct me if I’m wrong, but… I feel like you are one of those people who walks into a party and everyone immediately starts drinking their drink and acting like they’re having a really important conversation with the nearest possible person, just in hopes of avoiding you. I’m sorry your life has been this way, Skunk. I’m sure you feel really lonely sometimes. I bet you feel like no one cares. I bet even sometimes, you wish someone would, you know, ask you if you’d like a fresh beer from the fridge, or even ask you to casually accompany them to the bathroom while they powder their nose. But you see, you kind of have this rather… inconvenient habit of blasting people who annoy you with a repulsive, disgusting, potent liquid that could possibly cause death by immediately convincing your victim to commit suicide. And that’s fine. I mean, everyone has their ONE thing that no one can really stand about them, you know? Some people answer their own questions before you can answer them (Layke Jones.) Others are just really loud without really trying to be TAYLOR! And we accept these people, and love them anyway. Skunk, I just feel like if you continue this habit, you will always feel alone. And I don’t want that for you, Skunk. I want you to be happy.

Because you see, the reason I’m writing this letter is because I care about you. I know it may not seem that way. I know that when I come off stage and obnoxiously stomp back to the green room, past the dumpsters and small patch of wooded foliage that you now like to call “home,” and I scream things like, “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY SKUNK I’M COMING FOR YOUR SMELLY BLACK ASS!!!!” it may not seem like I care. But I do. I want you to feel happy, and safe, and secure with your current residential situation. And hey, for the most part, I think we’ve really done well so far! We kind of have our own little system, don’t we, Skunk? I let you rummage through the dumpsters while I’m performing, and you let me walk by you afterwards without dousing me in potent liquid acid. Everyone wins.

But Skunk, I have to say, I was rather disappointed with your actions today. You see, I’ve been going through a lot, Skunk. I know you probably won’t understand any of this, but I want you to know that I’ve been very stressed out lately at work. I’ve had to learn a whole new show and go into it acting like I know what the heck I’m doing, when in reality, I’m doing the entire performance completely live. Sometimes I get so nervous, I feel like I have three potato chips stuck in my throat. ESPECIALLY when my supervisors and bosses come to see me perform in the new venue. So, as you can imagine, when it comes time to sing my solos, I want the air around me to be clean, and fresh, and very breathable. But today, as I was performing the second show of the day, I smelled something a little… off, Skunk. I smelled a smell. I smelled a smell that smelled… smelly. And do you know what this smell was, Skunk? Do you?

Skunk, I’m really sorry that someone made you feel uncomfortable today. I’m sorry that, for whatever reason, you felt seriously threatened for your life, and had no other choice but to shoot exploding fumes out of your ass. Really. That must have been awful for you. But do you know what was awful for me, Skunk? What was awful for me was that while your daily scavenge for assorted pieces of trash was interrupted, my performance of Hot Summer Nights was interrupted… by the inability to breathe oxygen.

We live in America, Skunk, which means that you are free to choose to live wherever you see fit. I support your freedoms, Skunk. But what I don’t support? Is your choice to live in THE BIGGEST THEME PARK OF THE MIDWEST. If the presence of the human race makes you feel that uncomfortable and stressed out, maybe you should, oh, I don’t know, NOT LIVE IN A THEME PARK.

But you know, maybe the allure and convenience of the dumpsters is just too much for you. You know? Maybe it’s just like, one of those difficult decisions that people have to make when choosing a new home: “Well, honey, we literally live in the domestic violence capitol of the world, but JUST LOOK AT THE VIEW!!!” I get it. You give some, you get some. And I’m not asking you to move, Skunk. I’m not. I’m just suggesting that maybe, just maybe, you should reevaluate your life choices a little bit. Reassess your priorities, Skunk. Because I’ll tell you right now… We are NOT going to get along if you continue to spray your emotional defense mechanism onto the stage. It’s just… not going to work out between us. That’s all I’m saying.

I am really sorry that you had a bad day, and I hope whoever made you feel uncomfortable learned their lesson. I’m sure they did. I actually hope you sprayed the 8 year old boy I saw walking around earlier with a shirt that read, “Nice story, Babe. Now go make me a sandwich.” And I do really hope that from now on, we can all just get along. If you don’t decide to move, due to the fact that you, oh, I don’t know… have three unseen skunk pups hidden in that tiny patch of trees and underbrush, I understand. Relocating can be not only financially demanding, but also emotionally straining for the whole family. I just want you to understand that we humans can’t always change our entire schedules to accommodate you, Skunk. We kind of have our own shit to worry about, you know? Like, where we can find the nearest Dippin’ Dots cart. You chose to live at King’s Island. Not us. (Annnnd now that I think about it, you may actually be mentally unstable. And that would really explain a lot…)

Regardless, I do apologize for the inconvenience of living at a theme park, and hope that none of this has seriously offended you. I also hope that if we ever see each other again, we will be able to be mature about this whole smelly situation (haha, see what I did there!?), and face each other with a mutual respect and slightly fearful adoration.

Sincerely,
Carolyn Barry
Hot Summer Nights
Live Entertainment Dept.
King’s Island
Mason, OH

Keeping In Touch

Mahogany floorboards creak beneath our backs
I give myself over and slide into relax.
You’re beautiful, you said, and the candles’ wax cried.
We’re on strike three of too many tries.

And now I know
when the storm crawls through the window
where I chose constant sunlight
and you chose blackened snow-
That it’s here where we are,
and not where we’ll go.

I want to keep in touch with you.
Keep in touch all night.
Write your letters on my backbone,
Sketch your memories inside.

I’ve never been one to say goodbyes
Those birds on the wires refuse to fly.
It’s up to you, you said, and I drove staring on.
You brushed out my hair, and told me it’s long.

And now I’m really done.
The idea of you and you are not really one,
I chose endless sky
and you chose deepest sea,
So it’s here where we were,
and not where we’ll be.

I want to keep in touch with you.
Keep in touch all night.
Write your letters on my backbone,
Sketch your memories inside.

Where we once kept touch, we now keep distance
So we leave it be, goodbye and good riddance.
But when the rain falls in and the floorboards creak
I only hear candle wax and whispered lovers speak.

I want to keep in touch with you.
I want to keep my touch in you.
I want to keep your touch in me.
But what once was will never again be.

The Greatest Temporary Honor… Ever.

As a performer, it is considered one of the greatest honors at King’s Island to be asked to sing “God Bless America” to open the amusement park in the bright, sunny mornings here in Cincinnati, OH. You are required to greet the guests with a cheery, happy disposition… A reassuring smile, if you will, and a knowing twinkle in your eye that says, “After I sing this song, you are undoubtedly about to have the best day… ever.” You get to wear a flattering patriotic outfit, stand on the stage by yourself, and even include a few children volunteers to help you count down the agonizing final ten seconds before the yellow ropes are lowered and the antsy guests are able to rush to the attractions of their choice.

How the entire experience is supposed to go:

(The Performer takes the stage confidently. The alert and professional Sound Technician gives the signal to begin. The well-rested, agreeable, and bright faced Guests are giving their full attention to The Performer.)
The Performer: Good morning, King’s Island! My name is _______ and I am a part of the ________ cast, a show that will be taking place later today at _______. Please join me in singing God Bless America as we begin our day here at King’s Island!

God bless America,
land that I love!
Stand beside her,
And guide her,
Through the night
With a light from above.

From the mountains,
To the prairies,
To the oceans,
White with foam!
God bless America!
My home sweet home!
God bless America,
My home sweet home!

(The Guests erupt with cheers of patriotic applause and delight in The Performer’s flawless singing voice.)

The Performer: (Modestly) Thank you! Now, please help me welcome our very special guests being escorted by (insert Peanut’s character name) and (insert the other Peanut’s character name) who will be doing a meet n’ greet later today!

(The Child Volunteers confidently stride onto the stage, smiles brimming ear to ear. The parents of the children wait quietly and proudly off to the side, beaming at their smart and well behaved children. The Peanut’s characters wait below, framing the stage symmetrically.)

The Performer: Hello there! What are your names?!
Child 1: (Confidently and loudly so that everyone can hear) BILLY!
Child 2: (Just as confident, if not even more so) SUZIE!
The Performer: And where are you guys from?
BILLY and SUZIE: (In perfect unison and possibly even in spoken pitch harmony) ANDERSON, INDIANA!
The Performer: Have either of you ever opened a park before!?
BILLY: Oh gosh, no!
SUZIE: Ee gads, this is our very first time!
The Performer: Wonderful! Are you ready, kids?
BILLY and SUZIE: (In complete confident unison) Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO!!! ONNEE!!! KINGS ISLAND IS OFFICIALLY OPEN!!!!!!

(Cue glitter and confetti cannon explosion. The Guests gasp in glorious surprise, and then applaud in relieved amusement.)

The Performer: Wonderful! Thank you so much, guys! You really did a great job. And to the rest of you, make sure you have the best day EVER, here at King’s Island!

But some days, as I’ve been forced to learn here at the Isle of Kings, things don’t always go as planned. Some days, as I’m walking into work at 8:45 am, no make up, hair frizzed so far out that even Hermione Granger herself would be offended, I like to fantasize about what I would like to say into the microphone…. and how I could change everyone’s mornings…

How I wish I could act, how everyone else in this experience usually acts, and how I wish I could react to their choices:

(I drag myself onto the stage, wiping my nose with my forearm muttering something along the lines of “It’s too early to be doing this bull sh*t.” The sound technician barely looks up from his game of Angry Birds to give me the thumbs up. I smack my lips together a few times and do a few lip trills.)

Me: A hem, yeah hi, hello? Is this thing on? Awesome… okay… Hey! What’s up everyone-

(No one responds. No one even turns to face the stage.)

Me: Hello, my name is Carolyn Barry…

(I look around to see a group of middle school students in Hollister and A&F apparel chasing each other, the boys screaming things like “HE LIKES YOU, HE LIKES YOU!” and the girls being all, “OH EM GEE, Trent, STOP ITTTT!!!”)

Me: Hello? HELLO my name is…

(I see three African American gentlemen with their pants around their ankles, swaggin’ it over to the yellow rope. “Nah, man, iss cool! We cool. I know you was only bangin’ her on Wednesdays, man.”)

Me: My NAME is Carolyn Barry, and I’m a member of the-

(Somewhere, the petrified screams of a child on a leash being physically disciplined by their overweight, already-sweating mother echo through the bottom of the Eiffel tower. It’s not even 10:00 am yet. Not one, single human being is looking at me.)

Me: Would everyone please just SHUT!!!! UP!!!!!!

(The Guests suddenly realize that someone is on a microphone behind them, and they start to turn. A few of them have a look on their faces like, “Who the hell is this?” or  “Is she talking to us?” and “Where is the closest place to buy all of the food?”)

Me: The sooner you listen to me, the sooner you can drag your cellulite-infested thighs onto the Diamondback, okay? GAHHH. Look, I get it, okay? I get it. No one wants to be here right now! What, you think I do? You think I ENJOY waking up at the ass crack of dawn just to get here, wear this sweat-infested dress and these heels that literally smell like miniature garbage cans, and sing some bull sh*t song for you people?!?

(The Sound Technician goes back to playing Angry Birds. His job was to make sure the mic was working, and he did that.)

Me: So, yeah, hi. Good morning. My name is Carolyn Barry, and I’m a part of the American Country cast which will be closing this weekend, so come see us! And you know what?  If you don’t want to, which I’m guessing most of you don’t want to do, that’s fine too. I get it. I’m not going to be heartbroken. They do sell beer there, so hey! If you DO decide to come, seeing my show isn’t going to be a complete waste of your time…

(Everyone is staring at me now. Somewhere, someone’s grandmother says, “WHAAAT?”)

Me: (muttered) Oh screw it. (Loudly) Look, I’m gonna level with you people. I’m really sorry, but I have to sing God Bless America now. Okay? I know you don’t want to listen to me, and frankly, I don’t want to sing it for you. But just like it’s your job today to buy over-priced pretzels with cheese and show off your trashy tattoos and third degree sun burn “tan lines,” it’s MY  job today to sing you this song. And I can’t help that. If it makes you feel any better, for the record, I think is pretty retarded that I’m singing this right now because the park blasts the National Anthem through the speakers all morning, and that black b*tch sings a lot better than me, but whatever. Here’s goes nothing…

(I clear my throat and give myself a “moment before.” Within this moment, everyone goes back to what they were doing.)

Me:

God bless America!
Land that I love!
Is anyone liiiiiiisteniiiiing?
And… guide her…
Little kid, you are fat, stop eating dippin’ doootttss….

From the mountains,
to the- Hey! Get off the stage!
To the oceans…
LOOK PEOPLE, don’t you see me standing here!?! Would you at least turn around and act like you’re watching me!?
GOD BLESS AMERICA!
My home sweet home!
GOOOOD BLESS AMERICA.
MY HOOMMMEE…
…sweet…?
…screw it.

Thank you for nothing, you useless reptiles. Okaaaaay!!! Now please help me welcome our very special guests being escorted by… Sh*t, who is it today? I forgot to ask… Ummm looks like… Snoopy? Annnddd…the black one, what’s-his-face, Franklin, right? Yeah. Whatever. C’mon, hurry up, we don’t have all day.

(The children are practically being dragged by Snoopy and Franklin to the stage. They do NOT want to be doing this. Their mom is running behind them with her camera: “Look here, honey! Look at mommy! Here, Billy, hold Snoopy’s hand and smile BIG for mommy! And Suzie? Hold onto… this guy, and smile for momm- BILLY! HOLD SNOOPY’S HAND AND SMILE FOR MOMMY!!!!”)

Me: Hi. What are your names?
(I hold the microphone down and neither of them answer.)
Me: (Muttered through a fake smile, mouth pointing away from the microphone) Look, you have to say your names into the microphone so everyone out there can hear you.
Billy: Buuuut no one out there is looking at us.
(Beat.)
Me: Look, kid. I happen to know that your name is Billy. So SAY IT into the MICROPHONE or else your little sister SUZIE here gets to stand in front of the CO2 glitter cannons as they go off! Got that?
Billy: (Self consciously leaning into the mic) Billy.
(I hold the mic over to Suzie)
Me: And what’s your name?
Suzie: I like pancakes.
Me: … And where are you class acts from, anyway, huh?
Billy: Well, uh, we came in my mom’s van.
Suzie: Ooone time!? Our mooooooooom? She tooked us to McDonald’s, and I got a happy meal, and, and-
Me: Can it, Suzie Q. Let me guess. Neither of you little maggots have ever opened a park before have you? Noooo. No you haven’t. What a surprise! Everyone else that has ever done this has always opened at least two other theme parks in their lives! Okay. You ready?
Billy:
Suzie:
(I hold the microphone down to them)
Billy:
Suzie:
Me: You have to count down backwards from ten, remember?
Billy:
Suzie:
Billy: … One. …Two…
Suzie: Purple!
Me: NO! Backwards numbers from ten to-  No. No you know what? You just lost your park opening privileges. Assholes. Here, watch! TennineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoONE KINGS ISLAND IS OFFICIAL OPEN WOOO!!!

(The glitter cannons don’t go off. I look to the sound booth. The Sound Technician is passed out. A few audience members clap out of habit of someone saying “woo!!!” into a microphone. They then look down at their own hands like, “What was that? Why did I just do that?” )

Me: REALLY, JOE!? REALLY!? I SAIIIID, King’s Island is OFFICIALLY OPEN!

(The Sound Technician whips up and presses a button. The cannons explode, but barely shoot out any glitter or confetti. The result is a starling, yet somehow still anticlimactic gun shot noise that echoes through the park. As The Guests turn and run to be first in line for the Diamondback, I’m forced to put my arms around Billy and Suzie and “smile for mommy.”)

It’s at this point where I usually make my way back to the green room, kick off the smelly heels, and tell myself that hey, you know what? Everything I’m going through? This whole ridiculous existence? It’s only temporary. I just keep repeating those words over and over as the summer comes closer and closer to an end… It’s only temporary. It’s only temporary…

I think this picture says a lot.

The Day I Realized My Life Is An Actual Joke

A girl dressed in spanky shorts ran onstage. She just… decided that she wanted to be on the stage with us. Immediately.

At first she stood down at the edge of the stage and screamed with her arms outstretched towards us, as if she were at a Ke$ha concert and had just taken her first shot… ever… with Ke$ha herself. But then the opening number was completed (“IT’S AMERICA!”) and she freaked out even more.

Drunk Skank: WOOOO!!! YEEAAAAAA!!! OHHHH YEAH! WOO AMERICA OH YEAH!!! YES!!!!! YEAAAAAAASSSS!!!!

During her screaming cheering display of bouncing breasts and jiggling thighs, she pranced onstage. Then she decided to strike a pose like the rest of us. No one really knew what to do, so we all just stayed frozen in place. I think I heard DJ mutter “Whhaaaaat???” and Dallas said, “Are you f*cking kidding me?” I just tried to keep smiling, but I’m sure my eyes gave me away.

Later, backstage, before running on for “I Like It, I Love It,” I was able to catch a quick word with Layke “The Way” Jones. He didn’t look so hot.

Me: Hey- you okay?
Layke: (Frustrated and sweaty) Yeah mm, I don’t know. People like that really just piss me off.
Me: You mean that girl?
Layke: Yeah, I mean it’s just like, people don’t give a shit if we’re up here or not. You know?
Me: Oh. Yeah, I know.
Layke: (Working himself up) She just- walked right onto the stage! Like hello? We’re in the middle of a performance! You’re just going to walk onto the stage like it’s normal? Like it’s right?!
Me: I think she was wasted…
Layke:  Mmmm yeah, but if wasted drunk bitches can just come on stage whenever they want, what does that say about our job?!? It’s like… It’s like people can just walk, sh*t, p*ss, and f*ck all over our stage and there’s nothing we can do about it!!! YOU KNOW?!? (He runs onstage.) C’mon Y’all!!!

Now, you have to understand. Layke “The Way” Jones is not one to use such vulgar language. Layke “The Way” Jones is usually the one laughing hysterically at Dallas for being crass, but never really going over the edge like that…

And I think that is what finally proved to me that my current state of existence is actually a joke. The fact that, as Layke “The Way” Jones so eloquently put it, people really CAN just walk, p*ss, sh*t, and you-know-what all over the stage. They can really do whatever they want while our show is going on. They can eat Panda Express and fight with their families. They can completely turn their back to the stage and devour a LaRosa’s pizza if they so desire. Hell, I bet someone could actually just pull down their pants and take a nice big steaming dump over by the stage right monitor, and no one else would even notice- or care.

These people don’t come to see our show. They don’t come to King’s Island to watch six twenty-something’s sing a medley of 90’s country hits. No! They certainly do not! No one leaves the park saying, “You know what? I rode the Diamondback seven times in a row without getting off in between rides, I proposed to my girlfriend on top of the Eifel Tower during the fireworks show and she said yes, AND I found 20 bucks over by the pirate ship swing. But MAN! I missed the country show!!! My ENTIRE DAY IS RUINED!!!”

And that’s fine. Seriously, I get it. I wouldn’t come to a theme park to watch a show either if I didn’t know anyone in it. And I get that, it’s fine. I’m not looking for someone to weep with joy because I sang “Suds In The Bucket.” But what I am expecting? Is for intoxicated floozies to stay off the stage. Like, is that really so much to ask?

Literally, sometimes I’m onstage and I’m thinking, “Is this really happening? Is a show really going on right now?” I’ll look out into the audience and wonder if anyone is listening. Sure, we’re on stage. Sure, we’re singing. We’re dancing and smiling and acting all happy-go-country. But is anyone actually WATCHING or LISTENING?

So for the past few days I’ve started to say things onstage to see if anyone actually notices or cares. Here’s an example of how the dialogue is supposed to go:

(Intro music to “Young” starts playing)
Layke “The Way” Jones: (finishing his scripted monologue) …Country music was growin’ up, and so were we.
Dallas: That’s right, Layke!
Janelle: Alright boys, sing it!
Me: Come on, now! Woo!
(The boys start singing.)

…Or something like that. After saying some generic form of “Alright now, come on! Sing it! Woo!” I always look out into the audience to see how they’re doing. And it’s always the same; It literally looks like they’re all in a catatonic state. Some of them I swear have drips of drool hanging from their slightly open mouths. And so, this is what this job has done to me:

(Intro music to “Young” starts playing)
Layke “The Way” Jones: (finishing his scripted monologue) …Country music was growin’ up, and so were we.
Dallas: That’s right, Layke!
Janelle: Alright boys, sing it!
Me: Well I don’t know about Dallas growin’ up, but you sure have, Layke! Toaster, y’all. WOO!

Then I take a peek at the first few rows of the audience to see if anyone notices… or cares. And guess what?

They don’t.

They all just keep staring at the stage, or at their Panda and pizza, or keep right on arguing with their family members. So I decided to up my game. I wanted to see if anyone would make any sort of reaction.

The “Normal” Version:

(The first video montage ends, and Dallas takes center stage to start singing “My Next 30 Years.”)
Dallas: Woo!
Janelle: Alright now, SING IT Dallas!
Me: Take it away!

The “See If The Audience Is Still Breathing” Version:

(The first video montage ends, and Dallas takes center stage to start singing “My Next 30 Years.”)
Dallas: Woo!
Janelle: Alright now, SING IT Dallas!
Me: You know, I used to enjoy the color purple, DJ, but now! I LIKE YELLOW! WOO!!!

I still have yet to see any sort of realization or response from anyone in the audience. Not even a single furrowed brow in confusion. It’s actually my goal to say something that causes someone to, oh, I don’t know… blink? by the end of the summer.

My life is an actual joke.

Best Day Ever, Y’all!

It was a day like any other day. Only it wasn’t, because of two things:

Thing number one: There was a life-threatening storm raging a war outside. When sitting in the greenroom, you could see the trees literally being blown completely sideways through the tiny, prison-like windows. There were tornado warnings. There was so much rain I could have taken a comfortable bath in the potholes leading up to King’s Island, and used a kayak to get to work. There was lightening, and thunder, and it was basically just like Poseidon saying a nice big “SUCKS TO BE YOU!” to everyone at King’s Island. So, needless to say, driving to work, and then walking into work was not only… moist, but also terrifying. I think I barely escaped death. I was not happy. On the contrary, I was petrified, windblown, and soaking wet.

Thing number two: Our managers decided to host a week of festivities by creating a “Christmas in July!” week. Activities included making candy sleighs for the British Invasion cast, making a Christmas tree out of green painted hand prints, and of course, the traditional secret Santa exchange. So I come into work, soaking wet and totally over it, and everyone is basically freaking out, running around the greenroom going completely crazy because we get our big gifts today. I ask myself, “Is it a full moon or something?” …But then I remember it’s Secret Santa day. Fabulous. So I open my gift, and then I basically have a seizure, despite myself, because inside a Victoria’s Secret bag is an entire collection of dinosaur themed goodies. We’re talking an informational hardcover dinosaur book, a plastic T-Rex, and dinosaur fruit snacks. I think it took a grand total of 13 seconds between me seeing the dinosaur book to me opening and starting to read the entire dinosaur book.

It didn’t take long for DJ to sit down next to me and start asking very informed and intelligent questions about dinosaurs, such as, “Wait… so… if there were all of these plant eaters, and they were all happy, then how did meat eaters come to be? Like, why even have meat eaters evolve if the plant eaters were happy?” and, “Could a raptor take down one of these guys?” (Pointing to a brontosaurus). Suddenly, we hear Kayla yelling from the costume shop.

Kayla: (Extremely angry and annoyed) Um, where are my tights?!
Taylor: (Immediately) I DID NOT TAKE THEM!
(Janelle is doubled over in the fetal position on the couch, clutching her lower abdomen in complete and total feminine agony.)
Janelle: (Very pointed.) I. do. not. have. your tights.
Me: (Not looking up from the dinosaur book) Did you check the laundry?
Kayla: Well DUH. They aren’t there, I don’t understand. This is bullshit. I can’t even find my ditty bag!*
Me: (Checking my tights) Uerhh… yeah, mine say “Carolyn” on the elastic.
Taylor: Well, um Kayla, I took a pair from the VERY back that NO ONE ever wears because mine have runs in them, see the runs? And I took that pair I found IN THE BACK and I’m wearing them, but they have a B on the tag, see? (Gets up to go show Kayla the B on the tag.)
Kayla: UGH!!!
Dallas: Can you guys try to be quiet? (Slams his head down on the table.)
DJ: You okay?
Dallas: I don’t know… I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Kayla: (From the costume shop, yelling over Taylor’s explanations) YEAH!? Well I feel really weird, like my head’s all cloudy and I can’t focus. WHERE ARE MY TIGHTS!?!?!

*Note: I find the term “ditty bag” to be extremely unsettling.

Suddenly, the bass of our preshow music can be heard out in the Festhaus. This means we have a grand total of two minutes to get into our costumes, grab our cowboy hats and microphones, and get into position.

Preshow Music: BUM. BUM. BUM. BUM!
Everyone: DEVIL’S HEARTBEAT, Y’ALL!
Janelle: Nooooooo!!!!!!! I DON’T WANT TO! Don’t MAKEE meeeee….
Dallas: I am literally going to vomit. I can feel it. I’m going to puke all over the stage. Like, just all over the platforms.
DJ: Well if you really do have to vom, just try to not get it anywhere near me, okay?
Dallas: DJ? I have never wanted to punch you in the face more than I do right now.

We all reluctantly get up, get dressed, and get into position. We’re all standing backstage, ready to go on, when suddenly, Janelle and I realize that something is wrong… very wrong.

Me: Where is Taylor?! She’s going to miss our entrance!
Dallas: That stupid bit-
Janelle: NO! EVERYONE just STOP freaking out, OKAY!?!  GOSH. Taylor isn’t even IN this show, Kayla is, and I told Amanda to hold house for a couple of minutes because Kayla still can’t find her-
(The preshow music ends, and there is a moment of heightened silence. We’re all waiting to see if they hold house…. Then-)
Recorded Announcer Voice: CEDAR FAIR ENTERTAINMENT AND KING’S ISLAND-
Janelle: (Literally screaming like a banshee) NOOOOO!!!!!! NO I TOLD THEM! I TOLD THEM TO HOLD HOUSE! I TOLD THEM ALL! I HATE THIS PLACE, I HATE IT!!!! I TOLD THEM NOT TO-
Recorded Announcer Voice: -WOULD LIKE TO WELCOME YOU TO-
Dallas: (Actually about to vomit) Jesus CHRIST Janelle shut the F*CK UP you STUPID B*TCH!!!!
Recorded Announcer Voice: AMMMMERICAAAAAN COUNTRYYY!!!!!!
(We all run onstage)
Dallas: C’mon y’all!!!

Silence. Just, complete and total silence. Not even so much as a clap for our appearance onto the stage. I mean normally we have one person in the back give us a few half-hearted claps, or someone will yell out a short, “Woop!” or even a “Ye haw!” if we’re lucky. But not this time. Oh no. This time? The audience is made of up literally 25 people, at most. Fabulous. There is a group of males in the first few rows, about 12 of them, ages ranging from 10 to 35. Hm, I think. That’s weird. I’m forced to move over a couple of feet to save the formation and make up for Kayla’s missing body. In my head I’m mentally preparing myself for a 2 girl show, trying to re-choreograph and re-block a few things to make the formations look normal.

Then, Layke comes onstage, and I swear to you it is like Justin Timberlake just popped out of a pile of pompoms at a cheerleading competition. The “audience” (AKA the group of 12 males in the first few rows) ERUPTS into high-pitched screams and applause. It’s already a running joke within our cast that Layke is “the best singer” only because during meet and greets, clueless tactless guests will approach us and say things like:

Clueless Tactless Guest: Yes, all of you guys did a great job but YOU! Yes, YOU RIGHT THERE! LAYKE JONES! You, young sir, have the voice of a GOD! My grandmother here used to have a lame leg, but after seeing this show and hearing your glorious voice, she’s been cured! See look!
Grandmother: (Springing out of her electrical wheelchair) I CAN WALK AGAIN! BLESS YOU, LAYKE JONES!!! BLESS YOU!!!!

Keep in mind, things like this happen right in front of the other guy performers. So, needless to say, Dallas is already a little bitter about this fact, and now the American Idol crowd for Layke isn’t exactly helping his, shall we say, putrid demeanor.

Dallas: (Holding his cowboy hat down over his face, muttering) You have GOT to be kidding me…

And so, the opening number plays on, and we’re forced to figure it out as we go. I’m looking out into the audience at our supervisor Amanda like, “What is going on!? Where is Kayla!?” and she’s looking at us singing and dancing onstage, like, “What is going on!? Where is Kayla!?” We all run down the steps from the upper platform to the bottom of the stage, my mind racing on how to fix these formations. We usually have 3 girls and 3 boys, leaving everyone with a partner. But now there will always be one man without a girl… I run to my usually choreographed place next to DJ on stage right, hoping that Janelle will catch on and take Kayla’s place at stage left and partner up with Dallas, leaving Layke center stage by himself to sing his solo (A fact that I don’t think his fan club would be too heartbroken over). But because of their heated “tiff” that literally took place 14 seconds ago, Janelle wants absolutely nothing to do with Dallas, and Dallas would rather slam his hand in his truck five times in a row than spin Janelle into him… And so, Janelle continues to partner with Layke at center stage, leaving Dallas stage left… by himself.

Now, at this point, we have partner choreography. I instinctively hold out my hand for DJ to spin me in, but my hand falls down and lands at my side. It’s like I’ve tried to hold hands with a ghost. I look over to DJ, still singing and smiling, and with my eyes I’m like, “Yo, DJ, dude, what gives?” and he looks back to me being all like, “I tried to salvage this situation by not doing the choreography because I didn’t want Dallas to look stupid over there dancing by himself, but now that I think about it that makes no sense, and I immediately regret that decision.”

We keep going. Everything is a complete mess. I see Taylor in the audience and both hands are clasped tightly over her mouth and her pupils completely wide as if to say, “This is awful… This is awful… Please don’t let any of this be my fault…”

So the opening number ends- “It’s America!”- and the group in the first few rows just starts SCREAMING “OH YEAH! WOOO!!! YAYYYSSS!! YOU GO LAYKE! LAYKE YOU’RE THE BEST! LAYKE YOU’RE AMAZING!!!! LAYKE IS THE WAY!!!” and Layke is literally beaming and panting. To be completely honest, I don’t know if he was even aware that Kayla wasn’t on the stage.

And so, the first video montage starts. DJ and I walk to our positions on stage right and strike our poses, acting like this is the first time we’ve ever seen this video. And then, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Kayla creeping onto the stage, excruciatingly slowly… almost as if she goes slowly enough, no one will notice the new blonde girl who just magically appeared next to Dallas. She finally gets into place, and then shoots me a glance that is like, “I give zero f*cks.” I notice she’s wearing a pair of tights with a run in them.

DJ: (Muttering out of the corner of his fake smile) WHAT is going on in this show?
Me: I literally have no idea.
(I look down at Janelle. What I see is truly terrifying. She is sitting on the steps, staring directly down, with the most intense gaze I have ever seen. It’s like she’s trying to activate a secret laser vision power or something…)
Me: Janelle?
(And then… it happens. There was no stopping it, no warning, no inkling that this was about to happen. Janelle BURSTS into hysterical sobbing. We’re talking body heaving, pregnant bride crying about the wrong color wedding cake sobs.)
DJ: Is… is she serious?
Janelle: I. AM. PMS-ing. SO BAD! And… AND DALLAS!!! Dallas was (gasp) SO! (GASP) MEAANNN!!!!
DJ: But like…. She can’t be serious!

Now keep in mind, the ENTIRE audience (all 25 of them, mind you) can see what is going on right now. Janelle is shoving the mouthpiece of her microphone between her legs in hopes of muffling her own noises, but it’s not helping. The result is a scruffling sound of fabric against the mic, plus the half magnified sound of her mental breakdown, blasting through the monitors. Realizing that I’m the only female on this side of the stage, I know that it is time for some serious damage control. I move from my regularly choreographed place and sit down next to her.

Me: (Calmly, through my fake smile.) Hey. Janelle? Listen. Listen to me.
Janelle: But… but… (gasp GASP SOB gasp!)
Me: I know… I know it’s hard sometimes…
Janelle: (Nods her head in hysterical agreement, GASP!)
Me: But remember what we said yesterday about PMS? Hm? Do you? What you’re feeling? It’s not real. Remember? Everything you are feeling is actually false.
Janelle: BUT! But Dallas was… Was just… (SOB!) SOO MEANN TO MEEE WHEN WE CAME ON STAGE AND-
Me: (Intense stage whisper) JANELLE! Hey! We are ON STAGE right now. Okay? GET IT TOGETHER. Okay?
Janelle: But-
Me: Reel it in! Dallas is really sick today, he’s already on edge, and you’re PMS-ing. Okay? It’s just a bad combination. It’s nothing personal. But you know what? Hey. Look at me, Janelle. You know what?
Janelle: (Through teary and bloodshot eyes) …What?
Me: Not your chair, not your problem.

Well, that was just the absolute wrong thing to say. Instead of bursting into more sobs, Janelle then makes the glorious life choice to burst into hysterical fits of LAUGHTER. Oh yeah. Just, ROARING, belly-heaving laughter… like a demonic and scheming Santa Claus laughing openly at a naughty child who has no gifts to open on Christmas morning. My face goes completely blank. DJ looks horrified. He literally has no idea what is going on. I look across the stage. Kayla is gazing off into the distance, not even smiling. Dallas is hitting his thigh to the beat, but he looks seasick. And then there’s Layke, downstage center, completely GIVING it to the group of 12 guys in the front row who are all completely DYING for it. DJ and I exchange a glance.

And it is at this point that DJ and I realize… It’s up to us. This entire show? Everything happening right now? It’s up to us.

The video ends, and Janelle manages to pull it together enough to sing her part of the harmonies. The show then transitions into “My Maria.” At this point, my mind is still reeling because I’m still trying to mentally change the blocking to make it work, but now Kayla is back, so there is really no need for me to be doing that. I try to get a hold of my thoughts: I am Dallas’ partner during “My Maria.” Okay. Good. We can do this.

I run to my spot and hold his hand, acting like I’m Maria and that I’m the best thing since coconut water, and I beam up at him. And then I realize- Dallas doesn’t look so good… Actually, he looks perfectly awful, and terrified. He’s singing, holding my hand and performing with a smile, but his eyes are saying, “I have to vomit, Carolyn. I have to vomit. I am going to vomit. I am literally going to vomit on this stage.”

At the end of the song, he’s supposed to hold my hand up to his mouth and kiss it, and then we are supposed to frolic off stage together like the happily-ever-after couple that we are. But instead of holding my hand up and kissing it, he literally throws my hand back at me, like, “GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!” and starts to SPRINT up the stairs off stage. I’m left center stage, completely alone, so I strike some kind of pose, hoping to make it seem like I’m Maria, and I’m okay with the fact that my man just threw my hand away as if I am the most repulsive woman on the entire planet, and then I follow him offstage.

The second I’m offstage, I see Dallas HEAVING into a trashcan that he must have preset. At this point in time, DJ and I cross paths backstage while we’re walking to get to our new positions for our next entrances:

DJ: (Still laughing about Janelle’s emotional breakdown) WHAT is going ON!? WHAT are our lives!?
Me: (Deadpan) Dallas is throwing up.
DJ: …
Me: Looks like it’s a two guy show now. You cover for Dallas, sing his track, and I’ll concentrate on re-blocking the formations. Okay?
DJ: …
Me: GO!

So DJ SPRINTS to the other side of the stage, immediately going into “Fight or Flight” mode. I really have to give him a lot of credit here. He is ready to take Dallas’ place and cover for him. So “I like it, I love it, I want some more of it” is next. I’m trying to work out where the best place for me to go would be, due to the uneven partnering numbers again. I guess I was so preoccupied with those thoughts that I FORGOT that DJ would now be singing for Dallas, who is usually my partner for “I like it, I love it…” So I run onstage, the transition music blaring, expecting to see DALLAS, when low and behold, here comes DJ with a look that says, “I have never performed this song before, and I think I’m going to die.”

Now, this is literally the WORST time to have only 2 guys in the show, because there are supposed to be 3 couples of dancing; happy young country people with one couple on the upper platform, and the other 2 couples on stage left and stage right. I frantically look around the stage to see the damage, and that’s when I see her… Kayla. She goes to hip bump DJ, but because he’s with ME covering for Dallas at center stage, she’s left with no one…

Everyone: I LIKE IT! (Hip bump) I LOVE IT! (Hip bump) I WANT SOME MORE OF IT!

Only, Kayla wasn’t aware that she didn’t have a partner until the very moment her hip goes FLYING off to the side because, obviously, there’s no one there to hip bump with her. So now, not only am I trying to send good “You can do this!” vibes towards DJ, but now I’m forced to watch Kayla dance with an invisible man this entire number. I’m DYING laughing while DJ can barely breathe on a solo that isn’t even his.

But, as always, the show must go on. We transition into the only all-girl number of the entire show, “This Kiss.” Layke and DJ run off stage, and I finally feel okay. We can do this, I think. We can save this show. See? We have three girls, just like we’re supposed to. We can DO this number without anything going wrong! With my new-found determination, I’m completely GIVING it to the 25 guys in the front row. They look at me like I am the lowest creature on the entire planet. Okay. Alright. You know what? I’m not Layke Jones, and that’s fine. I can handle that! I mean So WHAT if they look pissed that Layke is no longer on stage… right? I mean so what if the only other people in this theatre are custodians, and one of them is currently mopping the floor right in front of us? WE’VE GOT THIS! WE CAN DO THIS!

And then… it happens. It just happens. It happens like Janelle’s emotional break down- without warning, without a single sign that this would ever come to pass…

Kayla stops singing.

She just, stops. It’s time for her to sing her solo. She’s supposed to say “Cinderella said to Snow White, how does love get so off course?” but she just… doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. The music is playing, and Kayla just… isn’t singing.  So then it dawns on her that the music playing is to HER SOLO, and she comes in with a mumbled, “…’Ella saidda Snow White, how does love gesso off couurrrse woah…” She looks at us like, “What the hell just happened to me? Why didn’t I just sing!?” and I look back at her like, “Are you okay?” and Janelle is still just, trying not to cry or laugh into her microphone.

And at this point, I have completely lost all hope.

Another transition, this time into  “Standing Outside the Fire.”Layke Jones returns to the stage with more energy than I’ve ever seen him have. I mean he is literally just GIVING it, 100% to this strange, all-guy fan club that he seems to know, and they are eating it up like sweet Layke pie on a cool summer night…

(Layke Enters)
Fan Club: Oh my GOOOOOOOSHHHHHH ITS LAYKE HOLY BABY MOSES IN A BASKET FLOATING DOWN THE NILE TO ESCAPE PERSECUTION FROM THE PHAROAH HES HERE HES BACK HES SINGING IM CURED IM FREE IM SAVED IM FREAKING OUT OMODFJ EDKLDSKFJOKJFEWOI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As we girls run off stage, I glance up at Layke to give him a “Are you serious with these people right now?” look, and that’s when I see it: He doesn’t have his guitar. He’s supposed to have a mic stand and a prop guitar, but all he has is the mic stand… I literally don’t even know what I did. I think my jaw dropped, at the least, but all I remember is looking on, horrified, at Layke busting out these last minute half-assed Motown moves with a mic stand during an AMERICAN COUNTRY show and his fans just dying for it, completely oblivious…

I run off stage. I see Dallas, clutching the trashcan.

Me: (Breathless) I literally cannot handle what is going on right now! Layke doesn’t even have his effing guitar! Like, what else can go wrong!?!? Are… are you okay?
Dallas: (Grabs trashcan and heaves again.)
Me: Gotta go!

I book it to the other side and make it just in time, my mind reeling because (BIG SURPRISE!!!) we have PARTNER choreography. I’m mentally fast-forwarding the show and realize that if I don’t run center stage, Kayla will- once again!- be holding hands with a no one. I act before I can stop myself. I sprint to center stage. I can do this! I can save this number! Only… as we’re running towards each other, smiles flashing, dresses swishing, Kayla and I suddenly realize at the exact same time that… I’m a girl. Annnnnd so is she.

So! There we are. The newly formed lesbian couple, dancing together downstage center. We both can barely keep it together.

The song ends. Layke’s fan club is practically crying with joy. I go to sing “Suds in the Bucket.” Only, there are no buckets. The boys just… I don’t even know… DON’T bring the buckets onstage? Then Kayla goes to sing “Love Story” by Taylor Effing Swift, and she’s left WITHOUT A PARTNER… and as she’s singing (Yes, she remembered to sing this time!) she just sits on the middle platform. Just sits there. Almost as if to say, “You know what? I’m tired. I almost got killed by a tornado on the way to work today, so I’m going to sit here on this platform. And! I am not going to give a single f*ck away. Not one.”

I’m dancing with DJ, who is still looking around like “WHAT IS MY LIFE!?!?!!” and I make the mistake of glancing at Kayla… The second I see what she’s doing, I’m toast. I just start laughing uncontrollably, and I can’t stop. Because the second I see Kayla PICKING AT HER FINGERS WHILE SHE IS SINGING A SOLO, I lose it. I just can’t contain myself anymore. She is LITERALLY singing, “Romeo save me, they’re tryin’ to tell me how to feel!” while examining the side of her hand, then the platform she’s sitting on, and her facial expression is saying, “Ew, I just put my hand in something sticky, what the hell is on this platform?”

I’m panting like a maniac, praying for this show to end. I look over to DJ, who has been singing every single one of Dallas’s songs, PLUS his own track… He looks completely exhausted. He looks like a beaten dog. And then, before I can stop it, a metaphor pops into my head…

This entire show, this entire “situation”? It’s like this:

I am pulling a truck with two missing wheels (One representing Dallas, one representing Taylor who is, by the way, still sitting in the audience with her hands over her mouth in complete horror…). The truck represents our show. I am pulling the truck with a rope, by myself. DJ is, of course, behind the truck, PUSHING as hard as he can. Dallas is sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, puking into a Krispy Crème sack. Janelle is sitting shot gun, crying hysterically and shooting Dallas evil glares in between sobs. Kayla is in the bed of the truck, looking up to the stars while smoking a cigarette. And Layke is standing ON TOP of the truck with his mic stand, completely GIVING it to the mob of fans walking slowly behind us, who are changing, “LAYKE! LAYKE! LAYKE! LAYKE!”

The second this image enters my brain I’m lost. I just can’t stop laughing. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. I literally just want this hot mess to be over…

And, like clockwork, it is. We make it through the 9/11 section without anything going too terribly wrong, and we do the reprise of “IT’S AMERICA!”

Everyone (except Dallas): IT’S AMERICA!
(Layke’s fan club is, at this point, practically flipping their table over in passion. Layke is beaming with complete and total performance victory. He really is just so pleased with himself. DJ and I are left center stage, panting, sweating, and almost crying.)
DJ: We… we did it…
Me: We did it DJ!
DJ: We… we made it through! We made it through that show!

Standing in a crowd of Layke’s fans who are ignoring us, we hear Layke ask Amanda a question:

Layke: Hey. Hey! Hey Amanda? Hey, Amanda, would you mind taking a picture of me with my youth group?
Amanda: Sure, Layke.
Kayla: (Muttered) You have got to be effing kidding me…

And just when we thought it was all over, just when we thought we were safe, and warm, and could take a minute to breathe… we see AJ the Sound Guy go SPRINTING out of the sound booth with a towel over his mouth.

Me: AJ, are you going to…?
AJ: Bluuubbbguurrrffffffffff….
(AJ runs backstage)
DJ: He did not just vomit into that towel.
Me: …I think he did.
DJ: No. No, he actually didn’t.
Me: He totally just vommed into that dirty towel.
DJ: Nope.
Me: (Laughing) Yeah, he did.
DJ: No. He didn’t. That is false.
Me: AJ just threw up into a towel while running from the theatre.
DJ: But like… what just happened?
Me: AJ just threw up into a-
DJ: NO I mean, like… that entire show. WHAT just, happened?
Me: …I don’t know.
(There’s a moment where we look across the way to see Layke beaming at his fans who are hugging him and saying things like, “I just can’t BELIEVE how good your voice is!!!!”)
DJ: Well… Show 2 is done.
Me: …Only 3 more to go.
(Beat.)
DJ: (Weighing the pros and cons) Do you want to go check on Dallas?
Me: Not really.
DJ: Yeah, me either. I can’t really handle vomit.
(Beat)
DJ: …Do you want to go look at your dinosaur book?
Me: DJ? There is nothing that I would want to do more than that right now.
(We exit.)

The. Fricken. End.

The Hillbilly Buffet

Not even 48 hours after going down one of the largest water slides in the Midwest in a velour banana suit, I arrived at Golden Corral dressed in a Three Wolf Moon T-shirt and a blue bandana. Dallas wore a flat billed Batman hat, huge basketball shorts, and a T shirt that said, “I attended Buffalo Wild Wings Draft Day 2009.” (I use the term “T shirt” loosely, because it was cut in such a way that at least one of his nipples was showing at all times).

The entire cast of American Country decided that we were going to go to the Golden Corral and have “redneck night.” Now, being from West Virginia proved to be amazingly helpful in this situation. While we planned our character names, back stories, and pasts, I simply took details from my hometown.

Janelle: Okay wait. Where are we from?
Me: We are from Moundsville, West Virginia.
Dallas: MOUNDS-ville?
Me: Yeah.
Layke: Wait… MOUNDS-ville?!
Me: Yeah, there’s a big Indian burial ground in the center of the town. It’s a big mound. Thus, Moundsville.
DJ: MOUNDS-ville?
Me: Moundsville.
Dallas: That’s… actually perfect. And you and I are engaged, right?
Me: Right. And Layke? You’re Bubba, and Janelle, you’re Timberly, and you two are separated but trying to work it out, okay? And Kayla? You’re Tammy Lynn.
Taylor: Who am I!?
Me: You’re Darlene, my best friend and next door neighbor since kindergarten. We’re all going on a family/friend vacation to King’s Island before me and Dallas’ wedding, okay? Darlene, you’re bitter because I chose Timberly to be my maid of honor.
Layke: This is going to be hilarious.
Taylor: I KNOW I CAN’T WAIT ITS SERIOUSLY GOING TO BE-
Dallas: TAYLOR! I swear if you f-ck this up I will have NO problem kicking you out, do you understand me!?!?!
Taylor: Yes, sir. But I had an idea…
Dallas: NO! You are Darlene, you’re a trashy tramp, and you’re going to bring a People magazine to the table with you, you got that?
Taylor: Okay. But I had an idea-
Dallas: What!?
DJ: Here we go…
Taylor: What if I have a child, but I don’t know who the baby daddy is, so there are a number of men who send me money, and with that money I bought myself an iPhone?
(Collective pause.)
Kayla: BAAAA HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Dallas: That’s actually great!
Taylor: Guys! Guys, it’s great! Haha! I promise I won’t mess up! Okay! I promise! And if I do, you have my FULL permission to kick me out!

After memorizing our back stories, names, and identities, we were ready. We all arrived at the Golden Corral in style…

Janelle emerged from her car wearing camo capris and a cut off t shirt that read “SHUT UP AND FISH.”

Layke had on a button up red flannel shirt over a wife beater, with the button up buttoned only on the very top button.

Kayla wore a fanny pack, cut off jeans shorts, and a T shirt with a picture of a chihuahua on it.

Kyle, (a member of another cast), was probably the most entertaining human I’ve ever seen. He was shamelessly sporting cowboy boots tucked under almost white denim jeans, which had been ripped in the crotch at one point, but sewn back up with red white and blue thread. Three cut off shirts, (ending with a denim vest, of curse) and a hat with two different pictures of two different hand gestures- the middle finger, and then a pointed “you” finger (a la Uncle Sam). He also refused to remove his sunglasses at any point.

We all stroll into Golden Corral. It’s literally like a commercial; all-American families enjoying the all-you-can-eat splendor. Everyone is dressed normally, except for us. Dallas is, of course, being ridiculously loud, and DJ and I keep shush-ing him.

Dallas: WHAAT!? DON’T SHUSH ME, WOMAN.
Me: What’d you just call me?!
Dallas: I’m sorry baby, I’ll be quieter.
Cashier: Hello, there.
Janelle: Yes, hello, hi there, how do ya do? Yes, we had a reservation for 12, I called earlier.
Cashier: Um… We usually don’t do reservations for parties less than 20.
Kyle: Shit!!! This place is all fancy-like, with signs tellin’ us where all the different foods are and stuff! Look, there’s the china section!
Janelle: Oh. Well… (Shooting a nasty look to Darlene AKA Taylor, my jealous best friend from my childhood) Makin’ the reservation was my Bridesmaid Of Honor duty. See, they’re gettin’ married and we’re on a vacation to King’s Island.  When I called earlier the woman on the phone seemed pretty darn happy I called, I read online you like to know when big parties are coming so-
Layke: Baby, why don’t you just shut up and let the men handle this one, okay, sweet pea? Hi, yes, we had a reservation. Now you telling me you done gone and lost it?
(Kayla puts her hands over her face to keep from laughing. At this point, the cashier is looking incredibly uncomfortable.)
Me: Bubba, be nice, I’m sure they-
Layke: Hey! I done know where you come from, but where I’m from, women are seen and not heard, is that understood?
Dallas: What’d you say to my woman?!?
Me: Baby, it’s fine. Look, you got a reservation or not? Or should we all just make our way around and find some seats to fit us all?
(The cashier looks from me, to Dallas, to Layke, to Kayla, to SHUT UP AND FISH Janelle, finally landing on Kyle’s hat, and he seems to be considering letting us all loose in the restaurant.)
Cashier: Give me a second to talk to my coworkers… In the meantime, what can I get you to drink?
Dallas: Mountain Dew. DUH.
Cashier: And for you?
Me: Mountain Dew.
Cashier: And… for you?
Kyle: Mountain Dew.
Cashier: And… you?
Layke: Mother’s Milk. Or as yuns city folk like to call it… Mountain Dew!
Dallas: WOOO!!!
(They high five.)
Cashier: …Are you all just going to get Mountain Dew?
Dallas: Actually, can we just get a big pitcher of it? Can you do that for us… Whats your name? (He looks as his name tag) Connor? Can you just do that for us Connor?
Connor: Well, you get free refills, anyway, so…
Kyle: HOT DAMN! You hear that, baby? FREE refills! I knew I’d like this- HOLY MOLY they got fried chicken!
Layke: SHAKE N BAKE BABY!!!

At this point, it is taking everything inside of me to not break character. I am laughing so hard my eyes are watering from trying to NOT laugh so hard…. Finally, another waitress comes up. She’s Asian, and her name is Zoe.

Zoe: Party of 12?
Me: That’s raight.
Zoe: …Follow me.
Dallas: Finally! Someone who knows what they’re talkin’ about.

She leads us to a long table in the back corner of the restaurant.

Zoe: Here you go.
Dallas: THANK yeeeew! What’s your name… Zoe? Zoe, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you darlin!
Me: (Remembering my Applebee’s days and feeling so sorry for this poor woman) And we all had Mountain Dews, just so’s you know.
Layke: MOUNTAIN DEW!!! Dale Earnhardt Junior, number three, y’all WOO!
Zoe: … enjoy…

Dallas springs up and grabs a plate. I can’t really look anyone in the eye, so I follow suit and try to keep a straight face. I go for the mashed potatoes first. I finally get composed enough to speak.

Me: Look, y’all. They got baked sweet taters over yonder on that there steam container thingy.
Kayla: I’m trying to watch my figger. Imma gonna go look at the chocolate fountain.
(Exit Kayla)
Kyle: Shit! Look at this, they got all kinds of fancy sauces over here, like turrEEEakkie, and good ol’ sweet barbecue.
Janelle: Ooooh I love me some BBQ!
Layke: (Laughing at himself) Yeah, well, your waist sure shows it, too, done it?
Janelle: Hey!
(Dallas, meanwhile, is across the way loading his plate with literally 5 drumsticks of fried chicken, and Layke notices. He ducks down under the buffet and waves to him.)
Layke: Shake n’ Bake, baby!
Dallas: SHAKE N BAKE!!!

We all sit down. I’m about to bite into my mashed potatoes when Kyle says:

Kyle: Now HOLD ON a second, wait up… Now, who here is gonna say the grace? I don’t want a repeat of last christmas dinner, you all remember that, don’t you?
Me: I sures do. Cousin Jeeter still has a scar.
Kayla: Why don’t you say the grace, then, darlin’?
Janelle: I’m the Bridesmaid of Honor, I think that I should say-
Layke: Now don’t you think you talk enough already as it is, there?
Dallas: I’m fricken’ hungry, and I got five, hot, steaming crispy shake n’ bake drumsticks on my plate. Someone just say the damn grace!
Kyle: All right, yall, I’M sayin’ the grace! Everyone take hands and bow your heads.
(I am so happy to have an excuse to hide my face and close my eyes)
Kyle: Dear Jesus. (Dramatic pause.)  We thank you for this big… steaming…bountiful… all-yous-can-eat feast at the Golden Corral-
Layke: (Under his breath) Shake n’ bake…
Kyle: …and we want you to thank you for bringin’ us all here on this here vacation to King’s Island –
Dallas: (Under his breath) Best place in the world…
Kyle: …to celebrate the upcoming weddin’ of these two lovely people sittin’ here to my right. And we ask that you bless them, and love them, and keep them in your Jesus-y hands, as they draw nearer to the day of their nuptial join-ment. May they have a happy weddin’ day and be all prosperous and joyful and all of that happy family life shit. AMEN.
All: AMEN!

We continue the meal, Layke and Janelle having fights about their failing marriage, Dallas shushing everyone, only to let out a muffled fart, and Taylor talking over everyone about her findings in the People Magazine she’s been reading at the table the whole time. Zoe comes back to refill our glasses a few times, and when she does, we ask her to take a few pictures of us together. Every time she’s about to snap the picture, we all yell: “Dale Earnhardt Jr. Yall!”

We’re all eating, enjoying the meal, when suddenly a HUGE group of African American girls aged anywhere between 10 and 18 come up to us.

Girl 1: Hey, can we just ask… Where are you all from?
Me: Moundsville, West Virginia!
(They all start to laugh, and then try to hide their amusement to be polite.)
Girl 1: W…West Virginia, huh?
Me: Yep! That’s right, we’re here on a family vacation. We’re going to King’s Island tomorrow, oh baby I’m so excited!
Dallas: Yep, and we’re gettin’ married soon, too!
Girl 3: You are!?
Me: Yep! Here’s the ring! (I show them the gold, not-really-an-engagement-ring-at-all ring I just happened to have on.)
(They stare at it, really unsure of how to react.)
Girl 2: Oh. Wow.
Me: Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? Now I know the diamond ain’t too big or anything but I’m a woman who knows how to live within my means, ain’t that right, baby?
Dallas: Darn tootin’.
Layke: Why don’t you tell em the story about that ring, huh?
Me: Aw no, they’re not interested in hearin’ about-
Girls: Oh no! Tell us! We want to hear! Oh my God no we want to hear! Etc…
Dallas: Well. You see, that ring is a family air-ah-loom. My great great grand mammy was actually one of those Jews, you see? And she actually survived in the Holocaust!

At this point, I literally don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle what comes out of Dallas’ mouth.

Dallas: And she gave it to her baby, then that baby gave it to HER baby, and then my momma gave it to ME because I’m the first born son and she never had a daughter and it was my job to give it to the woman of my choice, and I chose this woman right here.
Me: Oh, baby, you’re makin’ me bluushhh… He’s so romantic-like.
Layke: Tell em how you proposed!!!
Girls: Oh yeah! Tell us! We want to know! Etc…
(Keep in mind, the girls are blatantly looking at each other, laughing, then looking back to us and acting like they are sincerely interested.)
Me: No, no, they don’t want to hear about-
Girls: NO! We do! Please! Etc…
Dallas: Well! It was our second date and I had the ring all ready already, and we went to our favorite place to eat dinner called A Whole Lotta Pasta, and you know them there real skinny breadsticks? Not the big fluffy ones but the kinda smaller, crunchy ones? Well that’s the type of fancy place this was, with the crispy little breadsticks, and- Well I put the ring around one of them there sticks so that when she bit into it she’d see the ring, right? Well, I was so nervous, I asked the waitress to ask the question for me while I was in the restroom and she did, and I came back out (After woarshin’ my hands, o’ course) and she said yes! And so then we got engaged and now there’s only… how long till the weddin’, baby?
Me: (Almost not able to speak) 46 days till the weddin’, yall!
Girls: Aww! Congratulations!

At this point, Zoe arrives at the table with two special birthday treats. (Apparently, Kyle told her that it was “Big Bubba’s birthday” and that it was DJ’s “Belated birthday surprise dinner celebration”) We, of course, immediately burst into applause and song.

All: Haaaappy Biiiiirthday dear Bubba and Cooooooooooper, Happy Birthday TOOOO YOUUUU!! WOOOOO!!!!!!!
Girl 2: Hey! It’s my uncle’s birthday too! Can you all sing for him!?
Me: Well shoot! Of course we can!

So before I even know what the heck is happening, here we are at the Golden Corral serenading a huge, blushing, just-turned-40-year-old African American man with a positively massive crowd of his family (?) friends (?) singing and cheering with us. As you can imagine, it’s a pretty loud Happy Birthday. The entire restaurant applauds after we have finished.

We eventually leave and walk out into the parking lot, but not without saying goodbye to Zoe and Connor on our way out. (Dallas: THANKS FOR THE MOUNTAIN DEW, YALL!) As we all stand in the parking lot and look at each other with amazement, as if to say, “What the hell just happened? Did we seriously just pull that off?”a huge caravan carrying the entire African American party speeds off and honks at us. 17 bright and happy faces are shoved up against the window, with 17 waving hands shaking enthusiastically.

Van: (HONK HONK!) BYEEEE!!! NICE MEETING YOU!
Us: BYE YALL!!! NICE MEETIN’ ALL YUNS CITY FOLK!!!!
Me: AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

After this, there really wasn’t anything we could even hope to do to top what had just happened, so we all went back to Kayla’s apartment. But then, Dallas went outside to the drainage collection lake and caught a bull frog the size of a small dog. He put it in a Tupperware container and asked DJ and I if he could keep it, and we said “Absolutely not.” So then he whined and cried a bit, but in the end, he threw it back in the lake. I was proud of him.

The end.

Dallas and I, the happy couple. I’m holding a gift that Kayla brought for our “son.” According to our backstory, he was back at the motel being watched by the lady at the front desk, who only charges 4 dollars an hour. 46 days till the weddin’ y’all.

A Conversation With My Body

Me: So… here we are again.
Body: Yep.
Me: At work.
Body: Yep.
Me: What is our life?
Body: I’ve been wondering that for a while now.
Me: Man. We’re a mess.
Body: Yeah. No thanks to you. I think I you owe me an apology.
Me: For what?
Body: Are you serious?
Me: I’m not that bad.
Body: Carolyn. Pasta is not acceptable for every meal.
Me: It is when you’re trying to save money.
Body: Then buy some apples or something!
Me: Help me, I’m poor.
Body: And you can’t expect me to do a 5 show day with less than 8 hours of sleep.
Me: Why not? We made it through finals week on like, 3 hours.
Body: Were you forcing me to dance in 103 degree heat during finals week?
Me:
Body: Exactly. I’m going to sleep.
Me: Hey! Wait! We have a show in literally 8 minutes, and you’re in a bra, tights, and spanks.
Body: So I’m sleeping for five, and then you’ll dress me in two.
Me: That BARELY gives me enough time to do anything!
Body: Well, you BARELY gave me enough time to wake up today! How about them apples?
Me: What is it with you and apples today?
Body: THEY ARE NUTRITIOUS AND ARE FULL OF VITAMINS AND HEALTHY STUFF THAT PASTA WILL NEVER GIVE US.
Me: Why are you yelling- HEY! Stop yawning. We have no time for that.
Body: Do more crunches, then.
Me: Nah… I’m tired.
Body: You are literally unbelievable.
Me: And it’s too hot.
Body: Yeah. I’ll give you that one. It’s really fricken hot.
Me: Totally hot.
Body: At least we’re not eating La Rosa’s pizza.
Me: Yeah. Or Panda Express.
Body: Listen. What do you say we go home, eat a well balanced meal, shower, and sleep tonight? Hm? A good 8 hours ought to do it!
Me: I was actually planning on eating pasta and being on Facebook until an indeterminable hour of the evening.
Body: You disgust me. I’m going to sleep.
Me: Hey! Hey no, we have a show to do in-
Body: ZzZzZzZzZzZz…
Me:

A List of Six Instances from The Past Few Days of My Life

Sometimes, at the end of a long day when I’m too tired to journal everything out by hand, I make lists of things that have happened to me. It’s faster, easier, and usually gets the job done. Here is my list for the past few days.

1. I may or may not have a super power. It is the ability to sing and dance while thinking of something completely unrelated and different. Sometimes, my brain has a hiccup or something, and I forget the choreography and words of the song that I’ve performed FIVE MILLION TIMES BEFORE, and yet my body and mouth still produce the needed notes and moves. I feel my heart drop out of my stomach because I LITERALLY could not tell you the next word or the next move… and yet, my body and some other part of my brain kicks in, and there I am, perfectly singing gibberish and flailing my body around in hopes of entertaining the fat couple from New Hampshire who are each enjoying their own personal extra large La Rosa’s pizza.

2. Dialects are sometimes involuntary. Performing an “American Country!” show to large sweaty smelly Americans on the 4th of July will result in speaking in a southern dialect for the duration of the day, even when you’re not on stage, even when you’re answering the phone to speak with your Aunt, even when you’re driving through downtown Cincinnati on your way to go see some fire works and a large group of twenty-something African American gentlemen decide it would be exceedingly humorous to throw burning fireworks into the street at passing cars: “SWEET HOME ALABAMA, WE’RE ALL GONNA DAAA, ‘YALL!”

3. The 4th of July is probably not the best holiday to try to be a “Real Person.” Last year, I spent the entire 4th of July day drinking and gorging myself on burgers, lays, and potato salad. I played volley ball in a tiny slanted front yard with one of my best friends from college, (both of us a little self conscious to be wearing short shorts and bikini tops because of the aforementioned burgers and potato salad.) I scraped up my ribs by diving belly first down a make-shift slip n slide made out of a blue tarp, a rusty sprinkler, and assisted by a bottle of the neighbors’ Great Value canola oil. I also witnessed a few guys bong beers off of the roof of a house through a garden hose.

Yet, now that I am a graduate, and I am on the quest to become a “Real Person,” I realize that those activities are probably not acceptable for me to partake in anymore. And so, for THIS 4th of July, I planned to spend my time doing grown up things. I woke up on time, completely sober and healthy and ready for my day. I went to work. I decided I would like to partake in some wholesome, all-American fun after my day of hard labor, and so Dallas, Ryan (Dallas’ boyfriend), DJ, Taylor (the youngest girl of our cast, fresh out of high school), and I decided to see some fire works. We drove to downtown Cincinnati. We may or may not have witnessed a drive by shooting. I almost got my car blown up by the previously mentioned African American gentlemen jokesters with fireworks. We arrived at the square, ready to see some fireworks, only to realize that we had missed them… and instead, a group of African American rogue reggae gypsies were performing something that they liked to call “music.” We were honestly the only white people there. And not only were we the only white people there, but three of the five of us were obviously gay, and two of them were wearing matching American flag tank tops. We abandoned the firework idea. Taylor insisted that we take some pictures with the “flying pig” statues, so we have a miniature photo shoot. (Dallas: TAYLOR! ENOUGH PICTURES! This isn’t MySpace anymore!) We start to head back to the car. But first, we stop at an “Adult Superstore,” with encouragement and leadership brought to you by none other than Dallas. BUT! Classic me, I forget my wallet in the car, and without my ID I’m not allowed into the “back” of the establishment. (Maybe this was for the best?) I spend my time examining many bold and interesting wardrobe selections and accessories, while Dallas, Ryan, DJ, and Taylor have the pleasure of listening to an excruciatingly vivid explanation of a certain “product” by the store employee: (“You see, this piece here is PERFECT for… And if you’re interested, we also have another model that is much better suited for… if you’ll follow me, it’s just right over here…”) After the adult superstore, we finally make it back home. Alive. I drink a beer. We order pizza. I drink another beer. The pizza arrives. I eat the pizza. I find a huge plastic Marshall’s bag in the corner of the kitchen. I cut a few holes in it, and wear it like an old school ghost costume. (Note: I’m a lightweight). I let Ryan pour me a glass of his Long Island Iced Tea mix. We set off some fireworks in the ally behind Dallas and DJ’s house. One of the fireworks reads: “Caution. Use ONLY with adult supervision. This firework shoots off flaming balls!” I read this out loud to the group and giggle at the term, “flaming balls.” Dallas grabs the firework and lights it. It explodes, and what do you know!!?!?!?! It shoots off flaming balls. One of the flaming balls lands in the huge oak tree that hangs over their roof. At this point, I realize I’m still wearing the Marshall’s bag. Dallas screams and runs into the house. Ryan starts dancing around and chanting, ” Please go out! Please go out! Please go out!” I sip my scotch glass filled with the mediocre pre-mixed Long Island Iced Tea and start singing a blazing rendition of “Here’s to the Ladies Who Lunch.” Taylor is taking pictures of herself holding a sparkler. DJ, who doesn’t drink for personal reasons, simply stands and takes in the sight of the ball of fire in the tree, his drunk best friend running and screaming into the house, Ryan chanting, and me singing Sondheim in a Marshall’s bag. The flaming ball burns out in a matter of seconds. Ryan and Taylor cheer. Dallas explodes out of the house with perfect timing, carrying a Britta pitcher. (“I have no idea what this would have done to help the situation.”)

4.) Conversation had with Dallas before rushing onstage to sing “Standing Outside The Fire.”
Dallas: (Looking onstage at Layke, his eyes empty, his soul rotting) You know what sucks?
Me: …What?
Dallas: When performing isn’t fun anymore.
Me: Yeah…
Dallas: It’s f-ckin’ hot as balls.
Me: It’s hotter than Satan’s scepter sitting in the corner of hell’s office.
Dallas: What are we going to do tonight?
Me: I don’t know.
Dallas: I’m so jaded.
Me: Me too.
Dallas: I literally don’t think I can do this show again. Not again.
Me: You have to. Sorry.
Dallas: F-ck you, you dirty whore.
Layke (On stage, singing): Cause it’s not enough just to STAAAND outsideee the fiiiiire. C’mon YALL!
(I start to rush onstage, fake smile plastered to my face.)
Dallas: (Yelled in a way so that only the performers can hear) Shut the f-ck up, Layke!!!!

5.) During the 9-11 section, when everything is supposed to be completely serious and somber, a gentleman guest decided it would be okay to walk across the front of the theatre while holding one of those obnoxiously massive stuffed bananas wearing a reggae hat.  

Me: Where were you when the world stopped turning… that September day?
(Enter muscular gentleman in a one of those cut-off “shirts,” holding the ginormous reggae banana above his head in complete and total victory.)
Me: …Were you in your yard with your wife and children….

My super power kicks in. I suddenly remember the scene from The Hunchback of Notre Dame that we watched, sober, a few nights ago, the one where Quasimodo hoists the unconscious Esmeralda above his head and screams “SANCTUARY!!!” to the common folk below… I now imagine this gentleman screaming “SANCTUARY!!!!” while hoisting the reggae banana above his head in front of DJ while he attempts to sing “I’m Proud to be an American.”)

Me: …Or working on a stage in L.A.?

6. Conversation had in the car on the way back to the house after the failed firework adventure:
Taylor: Hey! Guys! Hey guys! Hey!
Dallas: WHAT, Taylor, Jesus Christ!
Taylor: Should I call Toppers and order the pizza!?!?!
Dallas: …That’s actually… the best idea you’ve had in a while, Taylor.
Me: …Yeah. Good call.
Taylor: Okay! (Dials the number) GOSH I am just so proactive and resourceful- Hello? Yes? Hello? (pause.) Dallas, what do I press to make them shut up?
Dallas: …What?
Taylor: It’s one of those promotional recording things.
Dallas: Oh. Well, you have to sit through it. That’s kind of the point.
Taylor: Oh. Right. Okay! ….( a moment passes ) GOSH, shut UP! NO I DO NOT WANT A LARGE PIZZA!!!! NO I DO NOT WANT TO FOLLOW YOU ON TWITTER! ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NOT- hello? Oh yes, Hi. Um, hello. We would like to order some pizza.
Dallas: Oh for the love of-
Taylor: For pick up. We will pick it up. (pause.) Okay. We would like three double orders-
Dallas/DJ/Me: NO!!!!
Dallas: Two triple orders, you stupid whore!
Taylor: Oh sorry! Sorry, two triple orders of stopper ticks. I mean pizza sticks, the toppers thingies! A double order sticks of popper pizza, one pepperoni and one cheese with ranch-
Dallas: Wait! No!
Taylor: Wait, no, I’m sorry!
Dallas: TWO triple orders, of TOPPER STICKS, one pepperoni, one cheese.
Taylor: Did you hear that? I’m sorry. Two triple orders of cheese and peperoni-
DJ: NO! ONE cheese, ONE peperoni!
Dallas: Dear God-
Taylor: What dipping sauces do we want?
DJ: Does he know TWO triple orders?
Taylor: YES! Now what sauces do we-
Ryan: Ranch.
Me: Cheese.
DJ: Pizza Sauce.
Dallas: Blue Cheese.
Taylor: OKAY! I am so sorry. We will need ranch, cheese sauce, blue cheese, and BBQ…
DJ: And pizza sauce!
Taylor: AND PIZZA SAUCE! Sorry, did you get all of those? Okay. Great. Yes. No, wait! We wanted topper sticks.
DJ: Oh my God.
Taylor: And we need a liter of coca cola. Do you have coca cola? You do? Great, we need a liter of that. Or- yeah, a two liter, or whatever… Annnddd… that should be it!
Dallas: I am going to jump out of this car.

We are, quite literally, “Standing Outside the Fire.”

Hashtag Themepark Life

I’m standing on the top platform of an old indoor stage at King’s Island. Behind me is a “patriotic” backdrop, two electric guitars crisscrossing each other with bold red font across the front that reads: “AMERICAN COUNTRY!” Surrounding this musical expression of electric southern patriotism is a flowing collage of multicultural humans engaging in oddly specific activities: A Chinese woman is dressed in a kimono, smiling and waving. An old white police officer who kind of resembles Steve Martin bends over a ladder, looks towards the sun with crinkled eyes squinting, his face obviously distressed in a moment of heightened heroism. A football player holds his hands above his head in complete and total American teenager victory. I’m wearing a short, pink, Little House On The Prairie-esque dress, a strapless bra that digs into my armpit fat, and a limp, thoroughly seasoned cowboy hat that is probably the only thing in this building more jaded than I am. There was some miscommunication between the costumers in charge of laundry and their managers, so all of my underclothes, including the Capezio dance tights strangling my sweaty lower back and muffin top, are wet.

It’s hot. It’s just so effing hot. The doors to the “Festhaus” are kept open, to encourage park guests to enter and enjoy their lunches in the comfort of “air conditioning.” (Lies. Complete and total lies.) The smell of Panda Express and LaRosa’s pizza has been billowing into our greenroom all morning, and now, standing on the top platform of the stage, I’m forced to now not only smell the food, but see it entering the blank expressionless drone faces of the guests who are tired, hot, and not in the mood for live entertainment. I haven’t eaten breakfast because I woke up late. My hair is reacting to the humidity and the unruly frizz is starting to stick to my cheeks, shoulder blades, and most enjoyably, my armpits. It’s week four.

During our “AMERICAN COUNTRY!” show, the live singing and dancing is temporarily interrupted to show videos of average, every day, all American citizens giving their opinions on country music, September 11th, and whether or not they are pro Taylor Swift. This is why I am standing on the top platform; I’m pretending to make new discoveries about the same 47 second video clip that I’ve been forced to watch four times a day for the past five weeks. A wide smile is spread across my face. My cheeks hurt.

My friend and fellow Amurican DJ stands to my right, staring at the TV with the same plastic smile that I’m sporting. He watches the large woman on the screen with feigned interest and concern. She’s wearing a pink cardigan and her dark short hair accentuates her round, toad-like face. Imagine if Dolores Umbridge and a bitter and jaded Santa Claus had a daughter who grew up being raised by Paula Dean in southern Tennessee… THAT would be the equivalent of this woman.

“Taylor Swift’s not my thing,” she says angrily to the camera. DJ and I continue to act like this is the most fascinating thing we’ve ever had the privilege of watching. “I do like Carrie Underwood, though. I was NOT a fan of her on Idol, though, I thought she was flat. HUH HUH HUH!”

“She’s a mess,” DJ says quietly out of the side of his smile. My shoulders start to shake from silent laughter.

The interview continues, but out of the corner of my eye, I see something very odd. A young black woman dressed in a food services uniform is walking across the front of the stage. But, she’s not alone… she’s carrying something… big? Or… pushing something… And all the while, a deafening SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! is causing the people in the front 5 rows to cover their ears and grimace.

I feel myself wanting to pull away from the screen to take a good look, but I’ve been told to act like I’m watching the video… and that I like it. My smile is now so large and so strained I feel my left eye start to twitch… all I want to do is look down and see what the heck is going on. I hear a child in the front row exclaim, “OW!” in reaction to the squeaking noise.

I see DJ abandon the screen and look down. That’s all I need. I immediately look down, too, and what I see completely baffles me.

The young food service worker is pushing one of those huge, industrial tray-carrying carts. You know, the ones that look like the skeleton of a mini skyscraper when not carrying any lunch trays? And this woman, this happy, blissful, eager woman, is pushing the huge contraption right in front of the stage, (SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!), at an uncomfortably slow pace, all with a look that says, “I’d rather be getting paid to shit out week-old left over Mexican food in a baseball field porta-potty instead of pushing this effing cart.”

I look to DJ to see his reaction. I’m sure my face says something like, “Are you kidding me right now!? Is this real life!?” and I want to see if he feels the same. But DJ can’t even bring himself to fake smile anymore. His face is completely blank, and in that moment, it seems like every hope of making this show a success has been drained from him. In fact, every dream he’s ever had about being successful, about being artistically and creatively fulfilled at his place of employment, about being on Broadway someday has been viciously ripped from him as well. He looks at the girl and her cart (“SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!”) Then he looks out to the park guests who are not watching the video, and are certainly not watching us, but are instead devouring their Panda Express and ignoring their children who are now playing freeze tag around the woman and her cart. DJ doesn’t look at me. He lets out a defeated, empty sigh.

“What is my life?” he exclaims to the cosmos.

I can’t stop laughing. I see that woman’s empty face, her obnoxious blue uniform overalls, and her complete disregard for our show, and I have to hand it to her. Pushing the ear-shattering cart in front of the entire crowd, along the front of the stage, is really actually a bold life choice when I think about it. She really gives zero fucks today. And I can respect that.

Suddenly, the video is over, and the intro music to the next song comes in. I slap my plastic smile back on and manage to compose myself. I start slapping my upper thigh to the beat, and look out enthusiastically at the crowd.

Us: “It’s a high school prom! It’s a Springsteen song! It’s a ride in a Chevorlet…!”
Guests:

I see the faces of empty souls. I see the faces of crying children. I see the faces of Americans who hate their families right now, hate what they do for a living, and hate that they had to pay so much money to get into an amusement park where they would then be forced to pay 50 dollars for their families to eat generic general tso chicken and cold string beans.

Us: “It’s a man on the moon, and fireflies in June! Kids selling lemonade!…”
Guests:

These empty souls? They hate me. They look at me and say, “Who are you to sing to me about how great America is? Why are you so loud? Stop singing. Stop dancing. Stop smiling. Do you even know where you are? This is an amusement park, and we are here on a family vacation. We are NOT here to have fun.”

Us: “It’s cities and farms, and open arms! One nation under GOOOOOD!”
Guests:

And it’s hot. Dear sweet Lucifer’s scepter in the corner of hell’s office, it’s hot. And we just. Keep. Singing. And. DANCING!

US: “IT’S AMERICA!!!”

BOOM! The big finish. We stand there, holding our microphones in the ending pose, breathing heavily, smiling, and looking out to the crowd. Silence. Complete, and utter silence. Then, finally, I guess someone realizes the lack of background noise or something, because from the very back corner of the building comes a single, weak clap. Then, a few more people join in, and finally, the whole crowd has the courtesy to clap a few times. It’s the weakest applause I’ve ever heard.

I remind myself that it could be worse. As I walk down to the font of the stage for the daily “meet and greet,” I remind myself of my waitressing days. I remind myself of those 3 weeks I worked as a customer service representative and spoke to senior citizens on the phone all day about converting their analog TVs to digital cable. I realize that I could be the girl pushing the Squeaker McSqueakerson cart. Or I could be the mother in the third row, house left, ready to commit suicide because her children are just so loud, sticky, and ungrateful, and her husband is doing nothing to help, other than devouring the pizza that her children are using as food fight ammunition. I realize that while I am hot, tired, and feeling like no one actually cares, these people are also hot, tired, and probably feel like no one cares either. And it’s my job to try to help them have a slightly brighter day, one patriotic, red white and blue let freedom ring to the oceans white with foam and the bombs bursting in air song at a time. Here I am, getting paid to do what I love to do. I’m getting up in front of people, no matter how brain dead they may seem, and I’m singing and dancing, and getting paid to do so. That’s a blessing in itself. And I need to remind myself of that.

And so, with new found determination and inspiration, I sit on the edge of the stage and smile to the children who are now looking at me as if I’ve just sprouted a baby arm out of my forehead. A little girl who was bouncing in the second row is hiding behind her father’s legs. She’s dressed in a pink shirt, and I can tell that she wants to talk to me, but she’s too frightened to approach. I hop off of the stage and kneel down to see her closer. She hides her face behind her father’s legs.

“I love your shirt,” I tell her. “Pink is my favorite color.”

She peeks her head out and stares at me, still cautious.

“My name’s Carolyn. Did you watch the show?”

She nods.

“Did you get to see the whole thing?”

She nods again, eying my microphone.

“Thank you for coming! I loved seeing you in the audience. Did you like the show?”

“My dad likes sharks.”

Making me think on my feet. Well done, Kid.

“Really? Does he watch shark week on the Discovery Channel?”

Suddenly, her entire face lights up. “YES! We watch shawk week and they have big teef and eat other fish sometimes…and, and… um, this one time? We went to the zoo and… you’re really pwetty.”

Suddenly and without warning, her father picks her up and carries her off without so much as a, “Nice show,” to me, and those two wide eyes stare back at me over his slightly bouncing shoulders.  She looks a little lost, a little sad, and a little confused as to what the hell just happened in her life. She whips around frantically, unable to do anything against the relentless force making her go towards a destination she can’t even see. I watch that little dot of pink disappear into the unforgiving crowd, and despite the 90 degree heat, I shiver. I shiver because I recognize the look in her eyes far better than any other plastic smile… For it’s the first time since graduating college a month ago that I’ve been able to recognize that same, lost, helpless feeling that has been dragging me towards a destination I can’t see.

I smile with my mouth, and wave to the strangers who are throwing away their trash.

Reflections of a Waitress

I thought working at a theme park was difficult. I thought getting up at the same time every day and doing the same thing every day with the same people every day was torture. Sure, I was doing what I loved, but was it worth it?

Pros of working a theme park:

1. You get IN SHAPE. Skinny arm central.

2. You don’t actually have to interact with anyone outside of your cast.

3. Sparkly gold dresses.

Pros of being a waitress:

1. Tips.

2. Schedules that are subject to change.

3. Working with different people every day.

Cons of theme park work:

1. Summer. Heat.

2. You don’t actually interact with anyone outside of your cast.

3. Sequins catch sweaty hair.

Cons of being a waitress:

1. Tips. Low, less than 10% tips.

2. Less hours, less shifts, less money.

3. Having to learn the names of cooks, fellow waitresses/waiters, bar tenders, bus boys, hosts, managers, regular customers, etc…

Being a waitress has made me realize how many different people there are in the world. Waiting on people is fascinating. How many dysfunctional couples did I get to actually speak to during my summer as a performer? None. Now, I have the privilege of talking to these fine people every day! I’ve started to give titles to memorable types of people, mostly to help me identify which type they are more quickly, and act accordingly. Here are a few types just off the top of my head:

Tired Mothers

• Appearance: Baggy eyes, over-the-shoulder diagonally hanging beige bag, usually accompanied by 3 loud, dirty, and needy children under the age of ten. Almost never accompanied by a helpful adult male companion.
• Disposition: Short tempered, exhausted, speaks quietly, as if every word is painful to mutter. Usually becomes offended if told we have Pepsi products instead of Coke products.

• Tip average: Less than ten percent, which is usually taken from the already discounted total due to her “smart” child’s “A+ is for Applebees!” free kids meal coupon.

Business Men

• Appearance: Suit and tie, button up shirt (usually light blue). Manly man bag which includes a lap top and/or a huge official looking black leather spiral notebook. Usually accompanied by two or more of his same kind, but must wait patiently for their arrival. While waiting, he will order an Arnold Palmer.
• Disposition: Before 3:00- relatively happy, eager to make the waitress laugh by cracking uncomfortable sexist jokes. Secretly enjoys making the waitress do everything twice, because it makes him feel powerful. Drinks his drink quickly, and shakes the ice at the waitress while she walks by. He seals the deal by giving a creepy wink, framed by a bushy pepper-colored eyebrow. Also frequently says things like, “Good job, honey” and “Now THERE we go!” when a refill is delivered to the table.After 3:00- relatively tired, eager to get his food and read his official looking notebook. Usually accompanied by fellow Business Men who are also relatively tired, and don’t want to be eating and doing business at the same time. Painfully polite dialogue is common, and sexist jokes diminish at an abnormally fast pace.
• Tip average: 15% if each man pays separately, 25% or higher if one man confidently grabs the check and pays for everyone before anyone can say anything about it. He will make a big show of filling out the tip line of his check, and will say, “There you go, sweetie, buy something pretty” as he hands you the slip. Tipping more than 20% means you are secure, dominant, and manly, and shows the other men at the table that you are, in fact, a “boss.”

High School Students:

• Appearance: Young “hip” looking teens. Usually wearing a Hollister shirt or ripped jeans.
• Disposition: Happy, disrespectful, and thirsty. Mountain Dew sales sky rocket. Straw paper conffetti is common on these tables. Students try to act older by memorizing the waitress’ name and using it as if they’ve been BFF’s 4Eva.
• Tip average: What tip average?

The Dysfunctional Nuclear family:

• Appearance: Father, mother, boy, and girl. Average-looking human beings who could pass as a happy family, if the conversation wasn’t so forced and hostile.
• Disposition: Father- Absentmindedly stares at the nearest TV, and says nothing, except for “I’ll take the 7 oz house sirloin.” Mother- Nervously looks from family member to family member to make sure that everyone is having a good time. Questions everything everyone orders, and usually pressures people into getting their steaks cooked Well Done instead of Medium Rare. Daughter- Makes sad eye contact with the waitress that usually portrays the message, “I’m sorry I was born into this family, and I’m sorry you have to wait on us now.”  Son- Says nothing, and let’s his mother order for him. Plays angry birds on his smart phone until his chicken fingers basket with ranch arrives.
• Tip average: Mother fills out slip- 10%. Father fills out slip- 15% or more, depending on how many times he “secretly” checked out the waitress during commercials.

Sometimes though, no matter how many types of people I interact with, I find myself getting a little bored. Times like these, I have to find something to entertain myself. Since I can’t whip out my phone and play Angry Birds myself, I find different games to make the time go faster. I personally like to play the “ranch” or “blue cheese” game in my head. It goes something like this:

Man: Honey BBQ boneless wings, please.

Me: Would you like ranch, or blue cheese to dip those wings in?

Me: (thinking) This man obviously wants ranch.

Man: I’ll take ranch please.

Me: Sure thing!

Me: Ten points. I am so good.

I also enjoy playing the Absolutely game. This is a game where I see how many times I can say “Absolutely” while speaking to a table. It goes something like this:

Woman: Could I please have a water?

Me: Absolutely. (1) Would you like lemon with that?

Woman: Yes, please.

Man: And I’ll take a coke.

Me: We actually only have Pepsi products. Is that okay?

Man: Sure.

Me: Absolutely (2), I’ll get those right away.

ONE MINUTE PASSES.

Me: (returning to the table with drinks) Do you guys need a few more minutes to decide?

Woman: Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.

Me: Absolutely (3) not.

FIVE MINUTES PASS.

Me: Are you guys ready now? I don’t want to rush you.

Man: No, we’re ready. I’ll take the Boneless wings with Honey BBQ sauce.

Me (This man obviously wants blue cheese) Absolutely (4.) Ranch or blue cheese to dip those in?

Man: Blue cheese, please.

Me: (Ten points. I am SO good.) Absolutely (5.) And for you ma’am?

Woman: Could I just have the half portion oriental chicken salad?

Me: Absolutely (6.) Any extra dressing with that?

Woman: Sure.

Me: Great guys, I will absolutely (7) get that right in for you!

Sometimes, when I lose count of my Absolutely’s or misdiagnose a ranch person as a blue cheese person, I’ll play the Baby Game. This game is hard to explain through the written word. But basically, the goal of the game is to find the loudest, most obnoxiously messy and disruptive child in the restaurant. After locating the child, make sure the parents aren’t looking, and make eye contact with the child. As soon as eye contact is made, make the most ghoulish and horrifying facial expression you can while putting your hands up to your face like claws. If the baby stops making loud noises and looks at you, dumbfounded, you win. If the baby screams louder, you win, and get an extra 10 points.

Sometimes, though, people are so amazingly rude, selfish, or just plain dumb, that I actually have no need for the Ranch/Blue Cheese Game, The Absolutely Game, or the Baby Game. The people are entertaining enough as it is! (Please NOTE: All of these situations have literally happened to me, in real life.)

Situation One:

Father: I’ll take a steak-

Me: 7 oz or 9 oz?

Father: (completely confused, but says in a rude and confident tone to cover his confusion..) 9 ounce! And I want fries and a salad with that, you got that? Fries, and a salad, I want the salad out first with no egg, no cucumber, extra tomatoes and ranch on the side. My son will take-

Me: Oh, how did you want your steak cooked?

Man:

Me: … Medium? Well done?

Man. Rare, rare! And my son wants a rib basket with onion rings, can I substitute rings for the fries?

Me: Sure, it will just be 1.29 more.

Man: Now THAT is horse crap right there, as if we’re not going to spend enough money already, you people have to charge us extra for onion rings!

Me:.. I’m sorry, would you rather substitute mashed potatoes or cole slaw? Those don’t cost extra.

Man: WHY NOT!? WHY DO JUST ONION RINGS COST MORE?

Me: I… I actually don’t know, sir.

Man: Typical. Whatever, he’ll just take onion rings, I guess. Can never get nothing for free…. My son wants a salad too, out first, extra egg and chicken.

Me: Well… our house salad doesn’t come with egg, or chicken on it. It would be smarter to get a 1/2 portion Fried Chicken Salad, which comes with both egg and chicken.

Man: And how much is that going to cost me?

Me: Well, it is a larger salad than the house salad, and comes with chicken, it’s about 8 dollars for that salad.

Man: NICE TRY, MISSY! Oh, you are good! YOU ARE GOOD!

Me: (awkward smile) So… just a house salad then without chicken or egg?

Man: What, we can’t even get chicken on a house salad?!

Me: You can, but it will cost extra…

Man: WHAT DOESN’T COST EXTRA IN THIS PLACE, HUH? TELL ME! PLEASE JUST TELL ME!

Me: … refills?

Situation Two:

Mother: Candice! Candice, sit down, stop climbing on the window- I’m sorry- Candice, do you want chocolate milk, or fruit punch?

Candice: SPRITE! SPRITE!

Mother: (suddenly morphing into Satan) NO! CANDICE NO! NO SODA, YOU KNOW THIS! (to me) She’s been with her damn father all weekend, I KNOW he’s been giving her whatever the hell she wants… CANDICE. LOOK AT MOMMY. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK!?!?

Candice: (Climbing the window) Choco mill.

Mother: Chocolate milk for her. (Sweetly) Ben, what do you want?

Ben: Mac N Cheese.

Mother: NO! WE’RE ORDERING DRINKS RIGHT NOW BEN! PAY ATTENTION!

Ben: Pepsi.

Mother: No, he’ll have a lemonade. They KNOW they are NOT ALLOWED to drink pop. CANDICE get DOWN. Vodka diet for me.

Me: Um… sure.

Mother: And we’ll take some spinach and artichoke dip to start off, please, as fast as you can-

Ben: Aw ma, I hate that spinach stuff you like…

Mother: BEN! Color the alien and be quiet. CANDICE! NO THROWING KNIVES AT YOUR BROTHER!

Situation Three:

Me: What can I get you to eat?

Old Man: You know you remind me of my daughter. Right now she’s living in Oregon, with that skamp of a boyfriend of hers, but she’s going to be a doctor now, Gonna make a ton of money on an annual salary and she’ll be able to take me fishing any time I want, can you believe that? Yep, any time now, I think she may be pregnant but she doesn’t want to tell me, but yes sir! YOU just remind me of her!

Me: …. Well… thank you… something to eat?

Old Man: Weeelllllll I haven’t really given that much thought! Can I just have some broccoli?

Me: Just… a side of broccoli?

Old Man: And you know, I often sometimes think if she just went to college somewhere else, she would have never met that man and she’d be so much better off, but what can you do? You can’t stop love and you can’t stop a woman IN love, so what can a father do? Hope and pray that she’ll someday be a doctor and take me fishing, huh!?!?!? PPPAAAAA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!

Me: Heh…heh heh… so… just broccoli then?

Old Man: Broccoli?!

Me: Yes, you said you wanted…

Old Man: No no, I want the chicken breast with mashed potatoes and tomatoes.

Me: …. Tomatoes on top?

Old Man: Slices of tomatoes on the side, of course.

Me: Well, they won’t count as a side, I can get you another side, free of charge! What about that broccoli?

Old Man: Girl! What IS it with you and broccoli!? I don’t want your stinkin’ broccoli. Just tomatoes and chicken and rice.

Me: … rice?

Old Man: YES. RICE. Do you understand?

Me:… Yes. I do.

Is it really worth it to put up with these people, for a less than 10% tip? I have to ask myself. I’ve just started to tell myself that people don’t know HOW to figure out ten, fifteen, and twenty percent. If you don’t know, here’s a really easy way:

The bill is 20.00.

Move the decimal point one space over to the left.

2.00. There. THAT is ten percent.

Want to find fifteen? Divide ten percent by two: 2.00 / 2 = 1.00. That is five percent! Now add that five percent onto the ten percent to get FIFTEEN PERCENT! 1.00 + 2.00 = 3.00. A 3.00 tip on a 20 dollar bill is very much acceptable. Fifty seven cents left on the table and a dime left under the booth is not.

Please, world. I’m begging you. Please. Tip your waitresses. You never know what they’re dealing with, what they have going on in their lives… Most of the girls I work with have kids themselves, and are trying to pay car repair bills, along with day care, health care, and utility bills with the fifty seven cents that you so generously leave under the booth. So step up. Pay it forward. Waitresses, see, we’re really just like you. Only sweatier and with a bigger smile. So please. Tip your waitress on the way out.