A M-F Play

So far, so good. In all senses of that word.

We got to NJ, and after dropping our things off at the house, headed to rehearsal. It was a bit off, since we didn’t know what we were working on so we were a bit out of sorts, and because we were legit ON THE STAGE. The set is basically done, y’all. The trailer park is built and we just had to fit into it.

After rehearsal, we carpooled back to our mansion for a couple of hours of down time. The bedroom I willingly took is the smallest– a dorm room sized square with a twin bed, a dresser, and a tiny TV on a tiny table. I am the baby, so I took the baby room. M joked as we were scurrying around the house that it was the “Anne Frank Room,” due to its proximity to a set of secret stairs (the maid’s stairs). It’s perfect for me– right by the bathroom, private, but right by the staircase so I will be able to hear when everyone’s up (i.e. no awkward mornings). We ran lines and goofed off a bit until it was time to head out for dinner.

The dinner place was chosen by the theatre’s artistic directors, and per expected, was a BYOB Italian place in a strip mall. They had brought two bottles of merlot, and the rest of the cast brought prosecco and two bottles of malbec. I think you can get a good sense of a cast by how they bond over cheap, filling food and alcohol, and this cast was AMAZING. Seriously. It felt like college– that easy, softly wine-drunk goofiness where everyone was dropping in and out of conversations and genial and funny and kind and seemed like they knew each other. Even the artistic directors, one of whom I had a couple of phone/email convos with and one who I’d only met on contract day, treated us like part of the family. I do, I do, I do, I love these people.

I ate a solid half of my unhealthy dinner of whole wheat linguine and what I thought would be veggies, but instead were fried asparagus and artichoke. I COULD have ordered a salad, but. I didn’t. I’m glad I didn’t. I don’t want to be that girl. M suggested running and yoga, which I am totally up for any day (except tomorrow since I am basically ALREADY asleep), but I’m not going to be the asshole who orders a salad at a Jersey Italian restaurant. NO.

we made it home to the mansion after a quick trip to Shoprite, where M gave out a bunch of our beautiful postcards and we bought breakfast food. I am GREAT at being flexible. Even deep in my ED, I could find something to turn into food, some way to compensate for un-ideal food situations that I needed to be socially present for. I starved at home, in my morning cereal bowl, but I ate whole meals when I went out with friends. I drank gin and tonics and wine on a empty stomach, but if someone was eating and offered it, I’d eat mozzarella sticks. Perhaps it meant I wouldn’t eat breakfast the next day, but my social responsibilities took precedent over my disorder at times. This… this is winning for me here. I do what they do, and they are pretty healthy but also completely non-judgemental. I got really fucking lucky.

I have GOT to sleep now. I’m also going to try to write journal entries hard copy this summer, as I got a new journal. It worked really well over the summer a few years ago, and much of it I might transcribe, but I’m going to (after this) likely make that my default journal. Just ’cause.

I miss my sweet kitty.
I miss my cozy apartment and my own schedule.
But I love these crazy hookers in this crazy Buffalo Bill mansion in this crazy Jersey Town.

Let’s do a motherfucking play.


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