tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35234046077173867602024-03-13T05:52:20.672-07:00Dead Bats in the SinkChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-53093413792041138122012-04-26T18:02:00.001-07:002012-04-26T18:02:20.912-07:00I'm Not a Woman<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
People should never assume someone’s gender.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m male. Or, at
least I was when I got dressed this morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also have a relatively high voice. I know this.
I’ve accepted it. I’ve moved on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, some people feel the need to remind me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I was in the car on the way to rehearsal. I was in a good mood, as I was actually
running early for a change. I was
listening to the radio, dancing and singing along. Then the station decided to play a new song.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The song was terrible.
It was stupid, cliché, repetitive.
I didn’t like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled into a parking space as the song finished. The deejay then announced that listeners
could call in and say what the thought of the song.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why not?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed my cell phone and punched in the number as they
were announced. The phone started to
ring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After thirty seconds, the deejay answered, asking what I
thought of the song. I was completely
honest with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said exactly what I disliked about the song. I directly quoted the song, commented on the
rhythm, and talked about music in general.
I thought I was very articulate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The deejay thanked me and hung up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat there, ecstatic.
My comments were about to be broadcast to people throughout the area.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned up the volume, ready to listen to my radio debut.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After two songs, the deejay began to speak again, saying the
results on the song were in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He started with a woman.
She loved the song. She seemed to
love the announcer more. You could hear
him desperately trying to end the conversation so he could move onto the next
caller.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, I heard my voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was saying what I disliked about the song. I was so well-spoken. I was so proud of myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My clip ended and the deejay began speaking to the next
caller, a middle-aged man. He loved the
song, as did the next person, and the next, and the next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was alone, everyone else adored the song I despised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the deejay finished playing the clips of people’s
responses, he began speaking again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disc Jockey: "Well,
it looks like everyone loved the song.
Well, almost everyone. We did
have that woman at the beginning who hated it."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took me a second.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was the only one who disliked the song.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not a woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who was the woman who disliked the song?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He thinks I’m a woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not a woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got out of my car and walked to rehearsal. I think I dislike the song even more now.<o:p></o:p></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-80789608464451084142012-03-24T12:50:00.001-07:002012-03-24T12:50:19.136-07:00Like an Angry Koala<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am currently sitting backstage during tech for <i>The Life of
Galileo</i>, and I am bored out of my mind.
This show has been running so perfectly that there is nothing
interesting for me to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is going extremely well, which is a good thing, because
it means the actual performance will go well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is going extremely smoothly, which is a bad thing,
because it means nothing funny has happened to me lately.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, I have to rely on one of my old standby
stories. The time I had a severe
allergic reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in the eighth grade I was cast as Smee in my
middle school’s production of <i>Peter Pan</i>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The show was phenomenal. We had gorgeous sets, four rented costumes,
and a flight rig. We had four shows,
each in front of a sold out, 650 seat house.
It was awesome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After our last show, we were all dreading strike. I went into the dressing room to get cleaned
up. Until now I had been using baby
wipes to remove my makeup.
Unfortunately, I had run out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started asking around, looking for something to get the
gunk off of my face. Finally, someone
offered me this cream they had.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always had sensitive skin. I’m allergic to most shaving creams, lotions,
and even adhesives. Unfortunately, I didn't think about this when I took the offered makeup remover.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started rubbing this cream on my face and all of my makeup
came right off. It was working
great. It was quick, effective, and not
that messy. Then my face started to
swell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t panic.
Much. I walked quickly out of the
dressing room and tried to find someone to help me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stumbled into one of the directors who grabbed a parent to
run out and get me some medicine. They
then sat me in the ticket booth and ordered me not to move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently ever since I had left the dressing room, my face
had swollen to about twice its normal size.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass in the ticket booth
window. I looked like an angry koala.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat there for half an hour. Eventually, the parent returned from the
store and handed me the Benadryl. I sat
in the ticket booth a popped allergy medicine until the end of strike. While everyone else was hard at work
cleaning, I sat with my face feeling like a moonbounce. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, in spite of my suffering, I learned something important
that day. If you ever want to avoid
work, all you have to do is have an allergic reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGizX0nVeVy8rSUQgVGwg-anEgvlR2vUo5bmmzPdyP4ElPuM5ZjPMU1-gSX0VJRVn02wuwn43MTE0JoePahtvq-7wywxAMKG5VWIiFRqtRGvFP8Jd497o7SxmCNE2J_Um5H_cCZibF7Po/s1600/648_pd193982_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGizX0nVeVy8rSUQgVGwg-anEgvlR2vUo5bmmzPdyP4ElPuM5ZjPMU1-gSX0VJRVn02wuwn43MTE0JoePahtvq-7wywxAMKG5VWIiFRqtRGvFP8Jd497o7SxmCNE2J_Um5H_cCZibF7Po/s320/648_pd193982_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Benadryl, getting me out of work since 2005</span></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-8972632506590613792012-03-04T19:11:00.000-08:002012-03-04T19:11:30.416-08:00Sometimes I Pretend to be a Dance Major<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Music Man is done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finished working on The Music Man with no additional
catastrophes (excluding an overheating projector, a collapsing spot light, and
a misfiring confetti cannon) and have moved onto my next production, The Life
of Galileo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am currently assistant stage managing for The Life of
Galileo, and everything has been running smoothly. It’s almost spooky how well things are going, it
seems like we’re due for some sort of accident.
The director obviously shares my feelings as he has given me the same
rule over and over again, “No injuries!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The director is worried about my safety. Apparently I take, “unnecessary risks,”
whether I’m learning how to do a cartwheel or pretending to be a dance
major. I think I’m being perfectly safe,
but the director does not agree.
Obviously he doesn’t know I haven’t been hurt in a theater in five
years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five years ago, I was stage managing Bye Bye Birdie. It was mid-January, and the production had
just moved into the performance space. A
group of us were hanging lights after rehearsal when we got hungry. We ordered Chinese. I ordered orange chicken.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thirty minutes later, we were all prepared to sit down on
the stage and enjoy our much deserved dinner, when I realized we didn’t have
any utensils. So, in my attempt to be
helpful, I leapt up and ran to the ticket booth to get us all forks out of the
supply cabinet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The theater we were working in seats 654 people in a raked
house. The ticket booth is located outside
of the top of the house. In case you
haven’t guessed, this difference in elevation is important.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found the forks easily enough and burst back into the
theater. I walked to the top of the
stairs and called down to the stage, “I got the for-“<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I tripped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tripped and rolled down twenty four stairs. I rolled faster and faster down to the bottom
of the theater. Forks flew everywhere. Finally, I slammed my head into a seat in the
front row. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat up, shouting, “I’m okay!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I felt something drip down the side of my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was bleeding pretty badly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other technicians sprang into
action. Two of them helped me into a chair,
while two others ran off in search of something cold to stop the swelling and
something absorbent to stop the bleeding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat there in a daze. Someone asked for my cell phone to call my
mom. I guess I gave it to them. I don’t really remember. Eventually, the person who had gone searching
for something to soak up the blood came back.
The only thing they could find was a box of napkins.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These weren’t normal napkins. These napkins were left over from an
anniversary party that had been held in the theater a few years earlier. They all said, “With Love…” across the front.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the person who had gone looking
for ice returned. They had even less
luck. They had gone in the freezer in
the ticket booth, only to find that we didn’t have any ice, ice packs, or even
frozen vegetables, all we had was pasta.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frozen pasta.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point, someone had cooked
rigatoni, coated it in marinara, and stuck it in the freezer. I don’t know who. I don’t know why. But it was cold, and the knot on my head was
swelling to the size of a softball.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, they stuck some, “With Love…” on
my head, as well as a Ziploc baggie full of pasta and I sat as still as I
could. I sat there for fifteen minutes
until my mom could show up and take me to the emergency room. As I left the theater, they handed my mom a
dish from the Chinese restaurant. I
remember thinking, “Hey, if I survive, I’ll get to eat orange chicken later.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sat in the emergency room for half
an hour. I’m pretty sure I saw someone
with a gunshot wound, but I could have been delirious. I sat in my chair, clinging to my pasta and
napkins as hard as I could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything was fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got six staples and a huge headache that
night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went home. After the whole ordeal I was starving. I remembered the orange chicken. I grabbed the dish and stuck it in the
microwave, ready for the most delicious meal of my life. I had cheated death, and I was really going
to enjoy this meal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The microwave beeped. I pulled out the food, sat down at the table,
and took off the lid, ready for a good meal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Szechwan beef.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had given me the wrong meal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t like Szechwan beef.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ate it anyway, and wiped my mouth
with a “With Love…” napkin afterwards.<o:p></o:p></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-9982047969620042052012-02-17T17:00:00.000-08:002012-02-17T19:14:43.973-08:00Why Did She Need so Many Roses?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I was accosted at Walmart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The directors of The Music Man wanted confetti to be
launched from the catwalk during the curtain call. The two high schoolers in charge of props had
acquired both confetti and confetti cannons.
The only thing they were missing were the CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges. After a bit of quick, poor research, I was
sent to Walmart to buy the cartridges.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They didn’t fit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges I purchased from Walmart were too small to
fit in the confetti cannons. I had to
take them back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned to Walmart the next afternoon. I had ten minutes before I had to leave for
work; but I figured I could be in and out in no time. I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I placed the cartridges on the customer service desk and
presented my receipt, trying to be as pleasant and positive as I could. The woman behind the counter picked up the
box and informed me that I could not return them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 1: “You
can’t return these. These are BBs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “No,
no, no. These aren’t BBs, they’re CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 1: “No,
these are ammo. We can’t take them
back. It’s Walmart policy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few more minutes of this, the employee finally sent
me to speak to the person in charge of all of the cash registers. You know, the person who stands at their own
small register in the front of the store, watching over all of the self-checkouts
like a hawk. I approached the woman,
doing my best to hide my frustration. I
had two minutes before I had to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Hi,
I was just trying to return these CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “You
can’t return those. Those are ammo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “These
aren’t ammo. They’re CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges. You can see they haven’t been used.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “No
we can’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “But,
why can’t you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “It’s
Walmart policy. We can’t take back ammo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is where the trouble started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A nearby woman, with an incredible amount of attitude, had overheard
our conversation. She whipped around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing I noticed was her cart. It was full of chocolate roses. I don’t mean she had three or four roses, I
mean full. There were at least sixty roses
in her cart, if not more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second thing I noticed was her sass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She immediately threw herself right into the middle of my
conversation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sassy Woman: “What do
you mean he can’t return those?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “He
can’t return them. It’s store policy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: -1.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: -1.0in;">
Sassy Woman: “But you all told him that those would work
with his product. If y’all told him that
and then they didn’t work you’re at fault, aren’t ya?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had never met this woman before. I hadn’t told her anything about my
situation. How she came to the
conclusion that Walmart had lied to me I have no idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “No,
that’s not our… what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sassy Woman: “If you
sold him the wrong product, you need to take it back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Employee 2: “We
can’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: -1.0in;">
<br /></div>
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Sassy
Woman: “Oh,
you can’t? I once bought a 2008 Camaro and
returned it two years later for all of my money back. I can return anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was so confused. Who was this woman? Apparently she returned a Camaro.
She was very proud of herself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sassy Woman: “I want
to speak to your manager.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point, the second employee took us back to the customer
service desk. The Queen-of-Returns had
taken control of my problem and I was starting to freak out. At the customer service desk a third employee
informed us that the manager was not in today.
This was not the right thing to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sassy Woman: “What do
you mean she’s not here!?!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The employee quickly apologized and offered to get the
assistant manager. She ran off and we
were left under the supervision of yet another employee.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sassy woman continued to shout about Camaros, returns,
ammunition, and justice. I continued to
grow more and more uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fourth employee watched us worriedly, glancing at his
walkie-talkie from time to time, looking like he was contemplating calling for
back up. I knew I was in trouble. Somehow this whole situation had gotten out
of my control. And on top of it all, I was
late for work. I panicked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I started trying to get the employee’s attention. I tried to catch his eye in the hopes that he
would understand that I was just as uncomfortable as he was, that I had never
met this woman before in my life, and that I had no clue what a Camaro had to do with anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I must have looked like an idiot, but it worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I finally caught his eye and he nodded at me. He cleared his throat and pointed at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Employee 4: “All right. When the assistant manager comes, do you want
to talk,”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He moved his finger to 2008 Camaro Woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Employee 4: “or
do you want her to talk?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My hand shot into the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Me: “I
want to talk!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I turned to the sassy woman and told I appreciated all the
trouble she had gone through, but I thought I would be fine. She told me, "all right," and wandered out of the
store with her load of chocolate roses, still mumbling about her Camaro.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The fourth employee took me to the back of the store to find
the assistant manager.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The assistant manager was standing near one of those
discount movie bins with a really tall Walmart employee. She took the CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Assistant Manager: “CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges. Are these ammo?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Very Tall Employee: “Nope.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Assistant Manager: “Take ‘em back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was it. All of
that trouble at the front of the store and the assistant manager cleared up the
whole situation in six seconds. Why didn’t
we go to her first?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
The fourth employee, who had guarded me earlier, escorted me
back to the front of the store. On the
way he started talking to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Employee 4: “We didn’t want any trouble. We didn’t want to call the cops, but we would
have called the cops. You need to be
careful when dealing with people. You
could have been in a lot of trouble.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to explain that I didn’t want any trouble either,
that I was sorry, and that I had never seen that super sassy woman before, but
I didn’t know how.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They refunded my money for the CO<span style="font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">2</span><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>cartridges
and sent me on my way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was half an hour late for work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbDq_qSu_iLt9rRzKA73zK5V8I8a95nnistruVGe1GmiN45bSxF4Vnyz2uCZPBskfzfzSDJ789JNSloIIMU-EGnBhL07BAtk1uxH-EY5ApVGSYOY5Y-DTE6GmcsYZ1kcy1-b15fc4aN4/s1600/Walmart-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbDq_qSu_iLt9rRzKA73zK5V8I8a95nnistruVGe1GmiN45bSxF4Vnyz2uCZPBskfzfzSDJ789JNSloIIMU-EGnBhL07BAtk1uxH-EY5ApVGSYOY5Y-DTE6GmcsYZ1kcy1-b15fc4aN4/s320/Walmart-logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I can never go to that Walmart again.</span></div>
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<br />Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-26723998500435546232012-02-13T13:01:00.000-08:002012-02-13T13:01:19.002-08:00Graveyards are Probably More Accurate than Cars<br />
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I hate projections.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know if you’ve ever seen them, but some productions,
in an attempt to make everything more “magical,” will add projections to the
performance. I have never cared for
them. I think they’re distracting and
often have little to do with the play itself.
So, imagine my joy when I was recently assigned to create my own set of
projections.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As I mentioned before, I am currently working on a middle
school production of The Music Man. The
other day one of the directors came up to me and explained that she wanted
photographs from the early 1900s to appear during certain numbers. Easy enough to do with the internet. She also wanted time stamps to appear periodically
throughout the play, typed in an old-timey font. I can type, I can pick a font, no
trouble. Finally, she wanted footage
from a moving train. There was the
problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The director wanted footage that showed the landscape
passing by as if the audience were looking out the window of a train. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but
even with the world wide web, there are very few videos like this in
existence. I decided I needed to film my
own<o:p></o:p></div>
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At 4:00 in the afternoon, my friend and I climbed into my
minivan. I was going to drive. She was going to film. We were going to do this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Music Man takes place in the Midwest. There aren’t many places in Northern Virginia
that resemble the plains and fields we needed for the film. So, we drove to the only place I could think
of that was relatively close and looked slightly Midwestern. Manassas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We got to Manassas without any trouble. She filmed while I crept along a stretch of
highway with my warning lights flashing.
We took several interesting shots and decided to call a day. Unfortunately, we had no clue where we
were. We were lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I drove around looking for something that looked remotely
familiar, while my camerawoman turned navigator scrambled through a map book,
trying to figure out where in the world we had gone. I saw nothing familiar. She couldn’t find our road on any map. We were getting desperate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We started to call people for help (thank goodness for cell
phones) and we were directed back to the school. We finally got back at 6:30. We had gotten all of the footage we needed in
45 minutes. We had been lost in Manassas
for almost two hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But, we didn’t let this setback stop us. After a quick dinner we formatted the videos
and continued working on the projections.
For the next day and a half, all we focused on was finishing these
projections. Towards the end of the
second day we finished. They were
beautiful. Especially the train videos.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dykZRfiimat4jzWmMfFkTENhMZPy09ZK1RCwHpYMGYw8jiTJNqq8KKXFNXSxLMtwl5dOdAYETYkgiVscG2lgg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Well, they're beautiful if you don't turn on your sound...</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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We were so incredibly proud.
These projections were wonderful.
They were our pride and joy, our baby (as they were the result of over
twenty hours of labor). I set them up
and prepared to show them to the directors, during our next run of the
show. I did and they worked
perfectly. I was ecstatic. They flowed well, they were relevant, and
they worked exactly as they were intended.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the show I was beaming, bursting with pride. Then, one of the directors came up to
me. I sat up, ready for my compliment I
knew I deserved. She told me she didn’t
like them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I was devastated.
Apparently my masterpiece was too distracting and they would have to rethink
using them. Twenty hours of work down
the drain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I hate projections.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523404607717386760.post-49155574955147634162012-02-06T19:20:00.000-08:002012-02-09T18:58:00.004-08:00Is it Real?The other day I found a dead bat in a sink.<br />
<br />
I am currently working on a middle school production of The Music Man. Basically my job is to keep all of the high school technicians in line while acting as the two directors' gofer.<br />
<br />
A few days ago, I was working on figuring out how to fly-in windows, when I saw a group of middle schoolers crowded around the paint sink located backstage. The middle schoolers were all staring into the sink saying things like, "Is it real?" and, "Don't touch it!" So, obviously, I went to investigate.<br />
<br />
The backstage paint sink is disgusting. I don't mean gross, I mean disgusting. I try to avoid it whenever I can. It is coated in at least an inch of dried paint, making it look more like modern art than modern plumbing. It Is always clogged and there is always a pool of stagnant water sitting in the bottom. Honestly, I'm shocked none of us have gotten malaria yet.<br />
<br />
So, in spite of my disgust, I went over to the sink and looked in. Inside was what looked like a toy mouse, or a bat missing its wings. It was a bat. The kids began explaining that they were trying to figure out whether it was a real bat or not. I leaned in for a closer look. I smelled death.<br />
<br />
At this point, one particularly eager eighth grader offered to pick up the bat to see if it was real. I quickly told him no and sent a member of run crew to get me paper towels.<br />
<br />
Lots of paper towels.<br />
<br />
After I had gotten the towels I picked up the bat with them. I was still unsure as to whether or not it was real, until I noticed the tiny claws, miniature teeth, and the wings folded up neatly beneath it. It would have been adorable had it not been decomposing as I held it.<br />
<br />
Even if it wasn't adorable, it was pretty cool. I was holding a real bat in my hands. Well, I was holding a real paper towel in my hand which was holding a real bat. I had to show it off. I ran around the theater showing everyone the awesome thing we had found backstage.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, not everyone is as big a fan of dead bats as I am, including the directors. So, I was kicked out in order to find a place to dispose of the bat. I was first tempted to just throw it away in one of the school's trash cans; but I realized that that would not be a fitting burial for this little life. Plus, it would probably continue to smell and shouldn't stay inside.<br />
<br />
So, I took it outside and thought about burying it. But, it was cold and I didn't want to dig a hole. So, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable. I hid it. I hid the bat outside. I hid the bat so that one day I will have a little tiny bat skeleton. Or a dog will eat it. Either way, it seemed more fitting than leaving it in a paint soaked sink.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4M_EQKpldKpzGxVTzXw2d5qVWCpy4F1deDBdMxiKNOjj9zGmsIt0UOrBtK9dR2CfopCsFPlpc4ej2IiftzG-f0PY3jAf9R3gbr3CC9ZtXm93RelCMe6s_2ERFrR9zGLS4wpnusfD9Nc/s1600/IMG00638-20120126-1528+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4M_EQKpldKpzGxVTzXw2d5qVWCpy4F1deDBdMxiKNOjj9zGmsIt0UOrBtK9dR2CfopCsFPlpc4ej2IiftzG-f0PY3jAf9R3gbr3CC9ZtXm93RelCMe6s_2ERFrR9zGLS4wpnusfD9Nc/s400/IMG00638-20120126-1528+(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16328499728402518361noreply@blogger.com0