Killing with kindness.

The one thing that's been in short supply this week has been...sleep.

With the show going up this Friday, last week was our move into the theater, and it meant many late nights. Wednesday night, in fact, I didn't get to bed until three, and then had to wake up to six to get Ashes to school. Even during a rehearsal, the duties kid duties don't end!

That Thursday night, I was exhausted, but pleased with many things, including the way the set was coming together, some of the fun props that were being brought in (such as a bear-claw bathttub for Mr. Whitney to bathe in), and the projections that I'm using during the show. Oh, and the orchestra, which sounded wonderful.

Only one major flaw: the infamous "marriage" line. Come Thursday, one of the more homophobic members was actually hissing and making faces every time it was said, and the Captain, who was delivering the line, was visibly shaken, and couldn't even recite it properly.

So, I did the best thing, given the situation: I cut the line. It would be one thing if it were just a few people, but since my goal was to bring people together, not divide them, and since divisions were starting to show, and badly, I had to be the bigger person, and make the cut. If it had been essential to the plot, that'd be one thing, but it was just a dumb joke.

About five minutes after announcing it to the cast as part of my Friday notes, I received the following message from the same exact person who had been hissing the night before:
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Dinner theater

Last night, after shopping for cars, Corb and I ended up at a restaurant that Buns and josie and I used to frequent, many years ago. It's a Rhode Island tradition called Greggs, and the air was filled with the smell of vinegar from the french fries and the harsh sounds of thick Rhode Island accents. Good food, though.

We sat in back of an older couple who were evidently on their first date. He was wearing a big cowboy hat and a jean jacket with "Loretta Lynn" embroidered on the back. She had a mop of tossled grayish hair piled atop her head, and a commanding voice immediately got my attention. Corb and I just sat there, listening to the conversation as if it were dinner theater.

"Now, I'm an alchoholic," she said. "I admit it! So if I ever do anything to embarrass you, or say something loudly that I shouldn't, I totally understand it if you just say to me, 'Look. That's it.' I totally understand it, and I wouldn't blame you one bit. Because I've done that, you know. Had too much to drink. Said things. Embarassing things. So if you, 'Time out,' I totally get it."

He had a scratchy, throaty voice, from one too many cigaretts. It was hard to hear all that he said. "No, I don't think that'll be a problem. I totally..." And then his voice died down.

The conversation bubbled up after a few minutes. "So he dove into the water, and when he came back up, I could see, clear as could be, that he had tears running down his eyes."

"How's that possible?" Corb asked me.

"And I looked at him and said, end of sentence. End of story. That's it."

He mumbled something to her.

"Yeah, my friend Janice had the same thing happen. And I said to her, 'kid, cry your eyes out, Go into a room and just let itr all out. And then, when that's all over, look in a mirror, wipe the tears away, put your make-up on, and go out there and face him again. Because that's all you can do, you know?"

I tell you, it was better than listening to Lynn Samuels.