It’s opening night, Internet! And to celebrate, I got myself this incredibly uncomfortable wonky nervous stomach!
Just replace “party” with “swirling hellstorm of nerves and despair.” SO YUMMY, SO YUMMY!
First things first, THANK YOU for your comments on my last post. It seems I am always in need of a reminder that, for fuck’s sake, IT IS OK and even A GOOD THING to participate and enjoy fulfilling things outside of my family. No final casting has been done on the fall show yet, but I’ve been reassured I’ll know one way or another relatively soon. And honestly, I can’t even think about that right now because I am at my absolute limit for JITTERS JITTERS HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE JITTERS.
(From Chappelle’s Show, which is also the source of this post title. “Wile bowels” was listed as a side effect on a fake commercial for BBQ sauce that aired on one of the episodes, and it’s just one of those poetic phrases that just sticks.)
At this point, I have about two hours of commuting & daycare pick-upping & Brad and Sadie drop-offing before I arrive downtown at the theatre, and then an agonizing 90 minutes after that before curtain. I’m in that strange territory between having no appetite and being ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY starving that is making me wish for a medical IV so that 1) I don’t pass out in the first scene, and 2) I don’t become knee-walking drunk after the first sip of my post-show drink.
Because I do not know if there will be blood, but there will be a post-show drink, my friends. Oh, yes.
I don’t know why I’m so seized with nerves and anxiety, but I’d be lying if I said I completely hated it. There’s something energizing about the adrenalin-infused nature of it all, even if I know I’m going to collapse into an exhausted heap by 11pm. I barely slept last night due to the excitement of it all, and I foresee a pretty big crash & burn in my future.
At least I know I have most of the day tomorrow at home with one hammy little girl (who has recently become fascinated with learning about bones & skeletons…), and that should serve to recharge my batteries so I can sufficiently work myself into a lather before tomorrow night’s show.
Wish me luck/break-a-legs, Internet! And please, bouncing baby jesus, do not let me forget any of my lines.
Do me this favor, Shorty Lord, and I promise I’ll upgrade you out of that dried grass swaddle. And possibly take you to the chiropractor. Your neck looks kind of ouchy.
You’re going to rock it.
Seriously.
Too late for leg breaking now, as I think you are probably on stage at this very moment. Being awesome, I have no doubt. So instead I will just say “Well done, J.T.!” Because I’m sure it was.
Break a leg!
break a leg! You’ll do great.
Break a leg!
Well hell you’re probably done and asleep by now – stupid west coast time difference and having to put the kids to bed put a real crimp in my timely reading. Hopefully you are sleeping soundly right now.
Judging by your tweet about the flattering e-mail, I’m guessing it went well. Break legs for the rest of the run, and let us know where to read your glowing review!