"Lots of Nasty Stuff About Underwear Salesmen."

A few of you have inquired into how it's been performing to an audience the last couple nights. Well, it beats the hell out of performing to an empty theater, I'll tell you what. We've pretty much been at capacity the past two nights, and one more show to go this weekend. According to an e-mail I received today, this will be the first Sunday show in our group's history, and the audience will be "older than dirt." I'm not sure how this has been predetermined (some sort of screening process?) but I'll let you know.

So, performing for an audience always restores my faith in humanity and makes the stress of the week leading up to it all for the good. Even our director seems pleased, and our stage manager is smiling. Though the show is rather long for a slapstick comedy, the audience thus far has been game, and the laughs plentiful. And those laughs are like a spa treatment for the soul.

We've had a few glitches, surprisingly, none of them technical. Opening night, several people started losing their wigs mid-scene, much to the viewers' delight. I forgot my fabulous pink handbag and had to stuff imaginary cookies in my pocket instead. Our beat-up animal rights activist accidentally flung a finger bandage in my general direction during our scene last night, and I was so proud of myself for swooping it up and returning it with the in-character ad-lib "My goodness, you're just falling apart, aren't you?" without missing a single cue.

Helen and Inita (that's me and Greg) are getting huge laughs with our entrance, which comes from behind the audience at the beginning of Act II when most people have no idea we're lurking back there. I absolutely love that scene, and feel so happy during it.

In general, I love every moment that I'm on stage, and love almost as much the moments when I am hiding behind the flats, bouncing on my toes, wiggling my fingers and getting ready to spring back out there, like an Olympian waiting for the gun. I love the moments when I am perched backstage, whispering with my castmates, or helping them tie their aprons or straighten their wigs. The only part I don't love is the 45 minutes between my Act I scene and my Act II entrance. That's a long time to cool my heels, and I sort of get out of the mood by the time I've fixed my lipstick five times and read all the fine print in the New Yorker.

But it's worth it.