Vacation is officially over. Good thing! I was getting tired of eating and shopping on my parents’ dime. But cut that umbilical chord, momma! I’m ready to get back to poor, independent, and unemployed!
I suppose that’s not fair. I am, as explained previously, employed through August 1. And I’m currently in Minnesota working on lines for The Sweet Stuff and terrified of this:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKL5krEsiVI&feature=related
That video clip is what I am using as some of my main visual research whilst developing the physical characterization for Dr. Sirsi, a young blood specialist from the Mayo Clinic with advanced stages of Muscular Dystrophy. The video is only a starting point, as Dr. Sirsi’s condition is a bit more deteriorated, to the point of being dependent upon forearm crutches.
Currently, this is my biggest task for pre-rehearsal work. I have never really been on any sort of crutches; I was once given those horrible armpit crutches for a foot injury but tossed them out the minute I left the doctor’s office because it was much more comfortable to limp on a cracked foot bone sans shoes in December than to hobble along with rubber rods jammed into my pits. And, if you know me at all, you understand how I feel about being dependent upon anyone/thing but myself, a busy schedule, and Chief the Christmas Miracle Dog.
As an actor, I tend to get hung up on one aspect of a role – or in this case, roles - I am playing, and I will hone in on perfecting it. In the case of The Sweet Stuff, it is Dr. Sirsi’s physical condition. It’s a tendency (and probably, in some Freudian nomenclature, deeply-seeded need) to over-analyze and make a situation more complicated than necessary – in acting and life, my father would argue. In graduate school, I fortunately became aware of this tendency and started to realize that…well, I really just need to chill the fuck out. A lovely and delightfully sassy Panamanian woman, who is the head of graduate directing at WIU, brought this obsessive behavior and way of working to my attention. She probably actually used some phrasing similar to “Baby, you really just need to chill the fuck out.” Bless her.
But the forearm crutches just keep staring me down with their aluminum rods and no-slip, rubber-tipped legs, skillfully taunting the perfectionist in me. Beasts.
Speaking of “beasts”, I was walking downtown Chicago at one point last year, and there was a group of right wing extremists who had formed a makeshift protest at one end of the State Street canal bridge. One sign out of the politico-religious plethora, which still makes me giggle, read “The homos are beasts. They will eat your babies.”
Umm….Really? (said at highest frequency possible to demonstrate my apprehension, eyebrows scrunched, head cocked slightly to one side like Chief does when you say “Where’s your chewy?”)
They will literally eat my babies? What if I don’t have babies and don’t necessarily intend on having me some babies? Am I safe from “the homos” for good? I mean, because that would be great – ending overpopulation AND the violent crimes committed by “the homos”. This seems to me like a
two girls/one cup two birds/one stone situation.
Dear Right Wing Extremists,
Love and Rainbows,
Dear Gay Friends,
Would you like to come over for a dinner party?
Love and Rainbows,
I know this was a long, unannounced detour initiated from a pair of forearm crutch bullies, but every opportunity is a good one for a plug…
For other stories on Gay Rights issues in our country and around the globe, check out Change.org. This is one of the current stories on the site:
In final news, I bought a pair of tennis shoes today. Yes. sigh. I got some sneaks. As some of you realize, this is completely out of character for me. I needed them because the only other pair of tennis shoes I own were accidently left in Indianapolis with my beautiful twice-dented Honda, and I can’t work out in heels, as much as I would like to work out in heels. And just let me clarify, that I would most certainly prefer to work out in cute shoes; however, it isn’t safe. Or permissible in gyms or rec centers.
But this is my lot in life and the cross I bear. Tennis shoes it is. I just look silly wearing them. Don’t believe me?
Now you do. I think 6th grade was the last photographic evidence (save for cheerleading photos) of me wearing tennis shoes. I’d like to keep it that way. This photo is also evidence of what would become the nerdy white girl from high school discussed in another earlier post.
Can’t top that! Over and out.