I feel bad that I haven't had time to post a new blog in a long while . . . and I still don't. So instead, I thought I'd post one of my old blogs (from Myspace) because I re-read it and thought it was funny. Damn I amuse me.
For the past week, I've been working in the box office and house managing sold out performances of "Menopause: The Musical." Yes, it's as much fun as it sounds. And before you ask, no, I can't get you tickets, five thousand eight hundred and fifty some menopausal women already beat you to them.
As I've been dealing with the hot flashing hordes I've been compiling a list of things that, if not for the loss of my job or potential law suits, I would love to be able to say to my patrons. Here is a partial list, feel free to add your own:
1. The floor of the theater is not an acceptable place to leave your used Kleenex. You do realize that someone has to pick that up, right? Someone that doesn't already have your germs nor any desire to receive them? The same goes for lozenge wrappers too, but at least those aren't usually filled with boogies.
2. If you bought your tickets three weeks after the tickets went on sale, chances are you're not going to get great seats. So when you can't see everything on stage remember: I didn't block the show, I didn't design the set, I wasn't the one on stage hiding outside of your field of vision and I sure as hell wasn't the one who waited too long to order your tickets.
3. Sad puppy dog eyes will not make additional seats and/or performances magically appear. Nor will name dropping or flabbergasted ejaculations ('Wow. Sold out? Wow. Gee. Wow.'). I feel bad that there aren't any tickets left for you, really, I do . . . insofar as I dislike having to deal with you when you're trying to get tickets I don't have to sell you.
4. It is unacceptable that while cleaning up the theatre at the end of the night I should find a belt slung over a seat. Seriously, what is that about? Lost keys? Sure. Glasses? All the time. But a belt?! How did that come off during the show and furthermore, didn't you notice when you got up at the end that your pants were falling down? Leave no belts behind.
5. If you are told you are not allowed to bring food or beverages into the auditorium don't try to sneak it in. What are you, five?! Also "I'll just keep it in my purse" is a goddamn lie. You know it, I know it and the guy picking up your half finished Diet Coke and Snickers' wrapper sure as hell knows it.
6. I know you've been told all your life that you are special; that you are a unique person who deserves to be treated as such. It's not true. You are just another face in the crowd. You are cattle. Do not expect me to accommodate you at the expense of the other 400-some people in the room. You're too hot? Take off a belt or something. You're too cold? Put your belt back on. You don't like your seat? How about I just ask the people who bought their tickets in a timely manner to move so that Princess You can have her choice of seats?
7. Once the show is over you have a very important job: Get yourselves the hell out of the building as quickly as possible. It's not a difficult task, but it is very important. You see, I've been here far longer than you have and I haven't had the luxury of getting drunk before coming in like you have so I want to leave and I can't do that until you do. When I turn off lights in the lobby that does not mean I'm trying to give you mood lighting, it's actually just the lights' way of saying 'I'm sick of looking at you.'
8. I welcome all constructive criticism you have for the production. I will listen to what you have to say, and then pass it along to the production stage manager who will promptly file it in the "there's not a thing I can do about it nor is there any real impetuous for me to try" file.
9. If you call on Tuesday and don't purchase tickets, I will not remember you when you call again on Saturday. This is also true even if you did purchase tickets on Tuesday. I take over a hundred phone calls a day, all either from people whom I can't hear very well because they have lousy cell phones or people who can't hear me very well because they are so old that the only form of electronic communication they should be allowed to use is Life Alert. Therefore, unless you have a funny last name there is little chance I will be able to distinguish your call from the huddled masses of phone calls I get. See number 6.
10. Just because I don't know how to spell your crazy ass Polish surname when placing your order for tickets does not mean that I also don't know how to spell your first name of "Kathleen." I cannot tell you how many people spelled out "K-A-T-H-L-E-E-N" for me. I'm not an idiot. Normal names spoken clearly into the phone, I can do. Why do those of you with complicated names or street names figure I'll be able to sort it out while Kathleen Smith on Wood Ave needs to meticulously spell it out letter by letter? Oh, and while I'm at it, why is the area code the part of the phone number people give out the slowest? "Six. One. Six. nineeighttwofivesixfour." Geezus, people.
Thank you. Now it's time for me to turn off the lights.