72 Hours To Go
"Summer Mummers" opens in three days. It's an impressive...uh...I've lost my train of thought. Sorry. I just...I keep trying to think of words, but that seems to be an impossible task right now.
My normal bedtime is around 10:00 PM. Like a cranky toddler or a cranky old man, bedtime is a pretty strict rule that I have for myself. Last night, we left the Yucca theater at 11:15 PM. Once we got home, the fun didn't end. Due to a malfunctioning prop, my wife and I stayed up until 12:45 or so, pliers in hand, trying to fix things for the next rehearsal. My alarm goes off at 5:45 every morning. For those who have sub-par math skills that's...ummm...let's see...12:45 to 5:45...subtract this...carry the one...I don't know. It's not much sleep.
When we get to the final week of rehearsals, we go into a certain frame of mind. Think about a zombie. A zombie would love to rest. A zombie would love the satisfaction of a large meal that warms the tummy and the heart. A zombie doesn't want to hurt people. He just does it because it's the only choice he has. It's the same thing with Summer Mummers. We would love to rest. I would give almost anything for a home-cooked meal prepared by my wife. It makes no sense for us to put ourselves through this, but we do. Why? It's the only choice we have.
Tonight, my counterpart (who happens to be my brother-in-law) will do the melodrama rehearsal. While he is doing that, I will be helping my wife prepare last-minute props for opening night. It's almost a microcosm of society. You have a...person...and they are also...uh...I don't remember where I was going with that.
The other night, my wife said that she really wanted a bloody Mary. She asked if we had any mix. My answer (comical, yet honest)? "It's been a month since I've looked at our kitchen." But wait, there's more. Our laundry is piling up. My wife found a few minutes to separate it, but it still sits like a cotton mountain range in our bedroom. Our dogs still sport their winter coats because we haven't been able to find time to take them to the groomer. Wait...my wife just texted me. They are getting groomed this Friday.
I'm not complaining. I don't regret auditioning. This is my 14th year to be in this show, and I know what comes along with that. But I'd be lying if I told you that I'm not looking forward to this Sunday. No rehearsal. No performance. Grilling food by the pool. An ice chest full of adult beverages. Clearing out our Suddenlink-supplied Tivo. And, most importantly, getting the opportunzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
Hm? What happened?