NaBloPoMo ’14, Day 9: Now look who’s here; the little madam herself.

Here is a truth: I have gotten a little cocky in the last three years.

Here is another truth: I have earned that wee bit o’ cockiness, because after a lifetime of self-deprecation and doubt, I know now what I am bringing to the table, and I know that it’s solid.

…that’s all I’ve got tonight, kittens. The rest is for a Friends-Locked LiveJournal entry in my miiiiiiiiiind.


NaBloPoMo ’14, Day Eight: Oh, you’re no fun anymore.


That is a lie. Everyone in the Bay Area saw Laura Benanti at Feinstein’s but me. You are dicks, everyone, and I hate you.

I think I’m supposed to go to a callback for Les Miserables tomorrow night? I don’t know. I was really into the idea of being in that show, and then I realized that the only thing I’d ever be considered for is Mme Thenardier and it’s just like…meh. I know I’m a fat-ass, and I know a six-foot-tall, hefty Fantine probably wouldn’t inspire the same kind of sympathy a wee, waifish one would, but lawwwwwwd I give you such an “I Dreamed a Dream”, y’all can’t even handle it. And fatties can be prostitutes and get consumption too, you know. Whatever. I’m just gonna continue to be over here getting paid some sweet, sweet Equity money to pretend I’m Ethel Merman for five more weeks. SO THERE.

I started this entry before midnight, and therefore it still counts. I am playing fast and loose with all the rules this year.

NaBloPoMo ’14, Day Seven: And baby makes three.

Yes, I’m well on my way to having a full nuclear family of late NaBloPoMo posts, and basically all of them boil down to slightly-expanded Facebook statuses, so who really cares anyway. Not meeeeeeeeee!

Jumping from Yeast Nation to Something For the Boys is still just the mind-fuckiest thing. But…kind of great? I mean, I loved working on Yeast Nation. It challenged me in ways nothing I’ve ever worked on before has, and felt raw and exciting and weirdly dangerous…but Something For the Boys? Feels like home. This is my shit right here. Cole Porter songs, rapid-fire 40s banter packed with absurd period jargon, a character whose only job is to feel human feelings and hopefully make the audience feel them too; it’s nice. It comes naturally to me, this style. Yeast, I was struggling to get off book up until tech; this one, we block a scene and bam, my lines are memorized. Which is good, because we open in less than three weeks.

Choreography rehearsal tomorrow, so I can almost guarantee that the blog entry following it will be nothing but an audio clip of me weeping nonstop for a solid hour.

NaBloPoMo ’14, Day Six: I am legit terrible at this.

Whooooops forgot again. Whatever. I just ate night-breakfast at IHOP (“A little AM in you PM,” as my boyfriend put it) after watching a couple of crazy plays that may or may not have been about centaurs and satyrs. And now I’m about to go to sleep at my boyfriend’s place in Ingleside and YOU ARE NOT INVITED, NABLOPOMO.

I swear to God I will write a real thing tomorrow. Probably. Who knows. I AM A CREATURE OF MANY CAPRICIOUS WHIMS.