Worst. Luck. Ever.

It's true. I've officially earned the title. I don't know what deity I offended or puppy I kicked, but I'm reaping the sorrowful oats now. But let's start at the beginning...

I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.

Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.

After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.

A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.

Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.

Nothing happens.

Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.

The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.

We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...

Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.

And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?

Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.

My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.

I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.

Just a short note

... to tell you, my darling imaginary readers, that M3 returned my e-mail (!) and though it was simply a short ditty to say that he received it and does not currently have a computer (which makes e-mail correspondence somewhat of a less-sure thing), but he replied nonetheless. Distinctly a positive move in an otherwise completely and utterly abysmal couple of days.

I'll post more on just how bad my run of luck has been when I've got more than two seconds between disasters.

Hockey Night with Miss Melville

I've refrained so far, but tonight concluded game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Anaheim Ducks and the Ottawa Senators, and I will hold my peace no more...





DAMN YOU, SENS, PUT THE PUCK IN THE F-ING NET!!





... that said, it was a decent game. The Ducks played like shit the first period, which I appreciated and the Sens scored in the LAST SECOND of the first period. Way to go, boys-- Sometimes it really does take 19:59 to get it in. Regardless, there was a little bit of diving going on, but it's hockey: people fall down. The announcer did have a point when he compared Emery with Hasek in that there was an awful lot of diving going on just outside the crease.





Second period brought a resurgence from the Ducks despite the significant absence of Pronger, who is a dirty rotten bastard, I don't care what everybody else says. His hit in game 3 was blatant and cruel and totally uncalled-for and he should be publically caned. Or have frozen pucks shot at his bare chest from the blue line. Either one works for me. Anyway, the score was 2-2 at the end of the second period. In the closing seconds, the captain of the Sens went to clear the puck down the ice and happened to line up on Neidermeier (who is one helluva player, I'll give him that) and binged one off his shins. Was it deliberate? Who can say. Perhaps yes, but even then, should the captain be suspended? I say, no.





No, he shouldn't... and here's why: Hockey is a rough game. Boys become men somehow through slamming into each other play after play. They lose teeth. They smash facial bones. They split open heads in pursuit of the puck. You've got to expect a little roughness and to catch the puck in the teeth every now and again. Reminds you that you're alive, gets the blood pumping, all that business. And it's not like Neidermeier fell to the ice, grasping a shattered foot, ankle or shin as a result. The fight on the ice happened almost immediately, and the teams sorted it out for themselves. Let it be, I say. What happened to the old adage, no blood = no foul?



The game was marked by small flurries of activity on both ends of the ice. How the hell the Ducks goalie, popularly referred to as Giggy, managed to stop that firestorm from the Sens I will never know. It may be blasphemy, but I'm not particularly impressed by Emery in goal for the Sens. He just LOOKS shaky. And the apt comparisons to Hasek don't help any.

The rest of the third period was dismal at best. Perhaps the highlight of the commentary was the brief visit from Hockey Night in Canada Legend, Don Cherry. Just in case you'd forgotten, dear invisible reader, I have long harbored a love of basically all things Canadian, and there's nothing more Canadian than Don Cherry:





He's a delightfully funny, spunky, plain-spoken Hockey Legend, former coach and all-around upstanding citizen. He's all for fighting in the fine game of Hockey, and I'm all for him. And nobody rocks a pinstripe like this man. Also: please to note the case of Molson Canadian in the picture to the far right, the one with the red plaid suit... ahh, the goodness.

I dearly hope that the Sens can pull a win out at Anaheim in Game 5. They're down 3-1 in the best of 7 series, and the Ducks are tough to beat at home. Still, they've got to try. Ohh, lawd, they've got to try.