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July 17, 2003
I can't imagine what the bridge club thinks when they walk inside the Beal House and see about twelve adolescents pacing back and forth painstakingly slow on a path of ten to fifteen feet in length. Legs are about shoulder-width apart; palms are spread; jaw is loose; the head is at the top of the head (...); and the mind is cleared of everything except the four steps of walking. Up swing down press. These are the instructions that the kids are told, but to the elders, we are among the walking dead. Granted, they are in the bridge club, so they shouldn't be talking, but I'll forgive them for thinking that we are zombies. Or stoned.
We finish our mindfulness, and Eric asks for an area to be cleared on the floor.
"Lizard!" he calls.
Everyone drops to the ground and we start to croak and squeak and eat imaginary flies. "Dolphin!" is responded to by a chorus of "EH EHE EH" and awkward diving. Other such word associations are "Moose running for its life!" "Eric!" and "Egg!" But soon it ends, and we actually start to work.
It's Cinderella. Most everyone there didn't sign up for the play initially. But being that only four people showed up on the first day, he went about recruiting old actors. Whatever, we get in for free. I play King Leopold so I pretty much run the show. The script is absolutely horrible. Even if we had good actors, they couldn't pull it off. It's too lame.
MISS FRIENDLY: I'm your fairy godmother. NOW LET'S GET TO WORK AND SEE WHAT WE CAN DO!!
On Tuesday we go over Act I Scene II, which is like, my big scene. I, as the king, highly anticipate the return of my son, who has been out slaying dragons. But Prince Adrian comes back, and it turns out that he was too sensitive to kill the dragons. Go join PETA, you pussy. Adrian brings in Spitfire, his "young dragon friend," who is actually Eric's five-year-old daughter. The rest of the royal family cowers in fear, but I lift a chair over my head and attempt to swing it at the dragon.
"Dad?" his daughter says. "I don't want do to this play anymore." And on cue, she starts bawling her eyes out.
What can I say, I'm intimidating. Watch your back, bitch, I'm the fucking king.
MALA: Peony's foot will fit the slipper. Or Hollycock's.
On Wednesday, Cinderella and her fairy godmother have the stage for most of the day. Steph, Lauren, and I sit reading along with the script, but after about an hour of the same scene, we get bored and write each other notes. Lauren writes You like-a-the juice, eh? but I don't understand. I draw stars on all my knuckles and on my wrist, which makes me feel really badass. Steph and I finally get the chance to go on stage, but all we do is peek our heads out from behind the curtain unnecessarily. We find thumb tacks scattered everywhere and make holes in our shoes. Lauren makes a dragon out of a soda can.
And Thursday nothing particularly special happened. We met Angela, a funny little six-year-old blonde girl who plays the page, hits people with her trumpet, and dances with me backstage. We go outside to rehearse, because the bridge club took over our room. I was mauled by mosquitos, screamed "It TOUCHED me" when a bee landed on my hand in the middle of a scene, and I saw what was probably the scariest bug in the world next to me. It was a two-inch-long hornet. No lie. It was black and yellow and purple, and its stinger was one inch. It was the kind of hornet I'd expect to see in Jumanji. Jessica beat it to death with her flip-flop.
Hey, what is bridge anyway?
- Molly{2:26 pm}
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