When I got home I went straight to the bathroom, where I killed two cockraoches and mortally wounded another, and then proceeded to use an absolutely ridiculous amount of cotton wool to get all my stage make-up off. I've got Gracie Girl on repeat in the hope that it won't end up stuck in my head for all eternity.
It's over. It's all over.
Well, not all of it. Just the bit that involves wearing a leotard with a pillow sewn into it and hyperventilating on a table under bright white lights while secretly craving Poppy's cookies. And no, that was not in any way related to the melons joke, she actually brought in cookies which were in very high demand. Mmm, cookies. Good stress relief when we can't pop Sophie's bubblewrap because someone has a headache. And, trust me, at times like these, somebody can be relied upon to have a headache at any given point in time.
My parents came along to watch this time - unfortunately they also brought my brother, who was, I suppose, on reflection, not as noisy as he could have been considering he is three. But for the first few scenes he'd go "Look it's Maggie!" whenever I came on, and at one point my dad set off one of his toys while digging in the bag for a camera tape. Very, very noisy toy. My concentration? Over there.
On the bright side, the play did prompt my mother into telling me a few more Great Grandma Kalashnikov stories. Like how when she was first sent to the prison camp in Siberia when my grandma was one, they put her to work in a room full of sewing machines - Great Grandma Dora had never touched one in her life, so of course the thread ran all over the place and she started shrieking until they transferred her to some kind of assembly line. And she was apparantly studying law to help the poor people in Poland when she met Great Grandad (the one whose name was Adolf but was known as Sigmund at the time because he was an undercover Communist, and later the name stuck because, I mean, Hitler, and everything). Dora never finished her degree, though, because after they got married the Revolution happened and suddenly he wasn't undercover anymore and was transferred to St Petersburg, so she went with him. My mum only new about the law degree when she tracked down Dora's sister in America - Dora always said she studied linguistics, because she was afraid the government would come and get her again, or something. I get the impression that Siberia changed her a lot.
Here I am rambling on. I figured I'd forget it if I didn't write it down. It is sad that she was so secretive, and my mum didn't get many details. Such awesome stories deserve telling. Maybe I'll extrapolate it to science fiction some day.
On a final note, my mum says she thought the play was very well written, which simply confirms the theory that its target audience is people who've given birth at least once.
I loved it, of course. You can't perform something you don't love. I'll have time to hate it after I've seen the video my dad took a few times. Oh, that reminds me, there are photos! Taken by Poppy's dad on Opening night.
...but my computer is being bitchy and won't let me upload anything, so tomorrow.
It's over. It's all over.
Well, not all of it. Just the bit that involves wearing a leotard with a pillow sewn into it and hyperventilating on a table under bright white lights while secretly craving Poppy's cookies. And no, that was not in any way related to the melons joke, she actually brought in cookies which were in very high demand. Mmm, cookies. Good stress relief when we can't pop Sophie's bubblewrap because someone has a headache. And, trust me, at times like these, somebody can be relied upon to have a headache at any given point in time.
My parents came along to watch this time - unfortunately they also brought my brother, who was, I suppose, on reflection, not as noisy as he could have been considering he is three. But for the first few scenes he'd go "Look it's Maggie!" whenever I came on, and at one point my dad set off one of his toys while digging in the bag for a camera tape. Very, very noisy toy. My concentration? Over there.
On the bright side, the play did prompt my mother into telling me a few more Great Grandma Kalashnikov stories. Like how when she was first sent to the prison camp in Siberia when my grandma was one, they put her to work in a room full of sewing machines - Great Grandma Dora had never touched one in her life, so of course the thread ran all over the place and she started shrieking until they transferred her to some kind of assembly line. And she was apparantly studying law to help the poor people in Poland when she met Great Grandad (the one whose name was Adolf but was known as Sigmund at the time because he was an undercover Communist, and later the name stuck because, I mean, Hitler, and everything). Dora never finished her degree, though, because after they got married the Revolution happened and suddenly he wasn't undercover anymore and was transferred to St Petersburg, so she went with him. My mum only new about the law degree when she tracked down Dora's sister in America - Dora always said she studied linguistics, because she was afraid the government would come and get her again, or something. I get the impression that Siberia changed her a lot.
Here I am rambling on. I figured I'd forget it if I didn't write it down. It is sad that she was so secretive, and my mum didn't get many details. Such awesome stories deserve telling. Maybe I'll extrapolate it to science fiction some day.
On a final note, my mum says she thought the play was very well written, which simply confirms the theory that its target audience is people who've given birth at least once.
I loved it, of course. You can't perform something you don't love. I'll have time to hate it after I've seen the video my dad took a few times. Oh, that reminds me, there are photos! Taken by Poppy's dad on Opening night.
...but my computer is being bitchy and won't let me upload anything, so tomorrow.
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