Monday, January 21, 2019

Our show has a brightly labeled, basketweave-molded, flat-bottomed-for-stability tabletop thong bucket

Does YOUR show have a brightly labeled, basketweave-molded, flat-bottomed-for-stability tabletop thong bucket? No. No, your show does NOT have a brightly labeled, basketweave-molded, flat-bottomed-for-stability tabletop thong bucket. We totally win.

I’m trying to decide if it’s wise to work out right before our production-week rehearsals

On the one hand, I’ll instantly look 97 if I miss just one workout. On the other hand, my pre-workout shake—like ALL pre-workout shakes—can make me what we will politely call did-you-know-that-bathroom-in-Spanish-is-baño?-y.

I’m leaving the gym right now for thong rehearsal (yes—we strippers are literally having a rip-away thong rehearsal in the interest of establishing consistency in our stripping moves) so I’m about to find out how things ... come out.

In the mean time: I wore my NYC shirt today because The Full Monty takes place in Buffalo! Which totally made sense when I was getting dressed this morning!

#SparksOfJoy: A weekly post about something that makes me happy

A Chorus Line: I've had the privilege of being in this show--which captivated me so thoroughly and obsessively and cellularly as a teen--twice an an adult, and I still know and love and worship every note and every lyric and every line--except for the song "Nothing," which went from a revelatory teen favorite to a painful cliché to my adult ears … possibly because in both productions I did, Diana Morales sang it in a spotlight directly in front of me so I had to feign interest and enthusiasm while the rest of the cast got to take a zone-out break in the dark. The show initially captured my imagination and heart by articulating for me the struggles I was dreaming to share as I worked my way up the theater ladder to eventually land on a Broadway stage. Now I mostly just revel in the vocals and orchestrations--especially the wall-of-sound harmonies and contrapuntal melodies in the “One” closer. I make a point to see every production of A Chorus Line I come across, and every time I see it it's like a reunion of old friends … old friends who inevitably don champagne-colored costumes and form a line and kick gorgeously and enthusiastically and always dancing-as-one evenly into glorious infinity as the mirrors shimmer and the orchestra vamps and the lights slowly, slowly fade.

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Goodbye for now, obscene amounts of Christmas crap!

I’ve finally gotten you culled and organized enough to pack you away with a passable amount of OCD compliance. I feel a nagging compulsion to buy all matching bins next year so you look less overwhelming when you’re put away again. But as an imagined need, that would be even more obscene. So I won’t even bring it up.

In the interest of establishing a universal standard of objectivity,

I’m in the process of developing and applying rigorous scientific methodologies to create measurable efficiencies in plotting my eternal existential frustration as I rank my gym husbands in order—most to least—of who makes me giggle like a lovestruck schoolgirl.

I currently have three gym husbands in the #1 ranking—the system is clearly not ready to be published to undergo scientific review—but ONE OF THEM IS HERE TODAY GIGGLE GIGGLE GUSH GUSH WILL U B MY BOYFRIEND CHECK ONE [ ] YES [ ] NO (PLEASE CHECK YES PLEASE CHECK YES PLEASE CHECK YES)!
In other news, I just super-setted 21’s palms-up and 21’s palms-down. BEHOLD MY BOSSY BADASS BOUNCIN’-BABY-LIKE BICEPS!

We sure have some creepy ornaments

And some breathtakingly-adorable-child-picture ornaments. And, curiously but still admittedly Christmasy, a shapely-woman-wearing-a-tasseled-hanging-hook-and-beveling-in-an-unmissably-red-dress ornament. And, for reasons known only to the tooth fairy, a wooden bunny ornament. A wooden Christmas bunny ornament.
But, of course, the only reason I'm making this post—aside from finally exposing the Christmas terrors of my haunted, haunted childhood wrought by our creepy pantsless flat-handed pantyhose-head child-eating demon elf ornaments—is to report that I have just now, almost in time for an Easter visit from a wooden Christmas bunny, completely denuded our Christmas tree.

Dude. I totally just said denuded.

Well, shit

Bitch Kitty is curled up as adorably as her cold, black heart—which is as cold and black as this winter midnight—will allow with a plush squeaky poop emoji dog toy propped in front of her to undermine the last moth-eaten shreds of her courtliness, elegance and dignity.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Harold Nichols is IN DA HOUSE

—well, in da dressing room—and READY FOR TECH REHEARSAL—well, just as soon as his pants get hemmed.

My blood starts pumpin'

I hate to brag, but eight years ago when I saw the 9 to 5 Broadway tour in Chicago, not only did Dolly Parton walk right by me in the lobby, but it was her birthday and I *personally* (well, along with 1,799 dear friends) sang “Happy Birthday” to her.

Friday, January 18, 2019


Sitzprobe (noun):

1. A seated rehearsal that merges orchestra, vocals and body microphones for the first time in the production of a musical; 2. A vaguely naughty-sounding German word that though it may seem so at first doesn't really lend itself to clever sexual innuendo and don't even think you're going to come up with the elusive and brilliantly definitive "probe" joke because millions of very talented and clever and profoundly disturbed actors and singers before you have exhausted every last possibility a thousand times over; 3. THE COOLEST REHEARSAL OF EVERY SHOW OF YOUR LIFE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE; 4. I'm wearing my sporty-cool-electric-lemon-boogaloo hoodie today; 5. That has nothing to do with Sitzprobe but I didn't have any other place to fit it in today; 6. CHECK OUT THE NEON STRIPPER ON THE WALL BEHIND US OUR SET IS SO FREAKING COOL!

Leg Day in cheap, ill-fitting track pants is more miserable than Melania on Smocking Hamburder Night

I’d like to think my pants are all bunchy in all my uncomfortabunchy zones because of my mighty man quads and cantilevered cantaloupe calves, but it’s really because I was a big Clearance Clarence who was reeled in by the racing stripes. These stupid pants are tailored for cartoon ostrich legs, and they’re literally compromising my manly squats.

But they have pockets!
In other news, my Graffiti Wonder Woman shirt hasn’t sparked a single conversation about which is the definitive cast recording of Sondheim’s Follies. (It’s a tossup for me between the OBC and the Papermill Playhouse. Any other opinion is invalid.)

subornation of perjury (n):

the crime of persuading a person to commit perjury, defined as the swearing of a false oath to tell the truth in a legal proceeding, whether spoken or written. See illustration.

Of all the 10-Year Challenge parodies, this one made me laugh my head off

I’ve written this many things since November 29

And yes, our systems track our numbers for us in real time and display them on a convenient screen we can leave open in a browser tab. But I learned to count on an abacus, and if that was good enough for my brah Demosthenes, it’s good enough for couture shoes. Change my mind.

And while we’re talking about dates ’n’ stuff, TODAY IS MY NO-POP ONE-MONTH-IVERSARY!

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Good night!

Well hello, rakishly asymmetrical gym stealthfie!

It looks like you’re shaking things up on a different lat-pulldown machine. Your initiative and resourcefulness are sure to get you completely unnoticed by an entire gymful of muscular, handsome, manly men. Again.
Well hello, Shoop Shoop song on the gym speakers! In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a gymful of muscular, handsome, manly men. They prefer working out to the genre of music called Not The Shoop Shoop Song. Go back to your retirement-center elevator.

Just add USDA-uninspected Grade D meat!

Today in Stupid

Guess who—after eagerly waiting six months to finally have two big ugly pilar cysts removed from his head—initially went to the wrong doctor’s office this afternoon and had to race across town to get to the right one in time for his appointment?


There were never such devoted cysters

I know two of the (currently four) lumpy little (fatty, non-cancerous) pilar cysts on the back of my head had grown significantly bigger over the last year, and I finally had my mom take a picture of them for me because I somehow was unable to take a decent selfie of the back of my head and anyway HOLY CRAP HOW COME NOBODY TOLD ME HOW HORRIFYING THEY LOOKED? I’m so sorry for scarring all your retinas with their alarming hideousness, but I’m pleased to announce that they’re finally meeting their oozy, squishy, gross demise today at 2:30. (But don’t think the terror is over; there are two left, and I’ve had four removed to date ... and the damn things keep sprouting up. So my disfigurement is more of a journey than a destination.)

Anyway, I’m providing some helpful disguise options for the current enlarged ones to protect you until they’re safely dead and gone. You’re welcome.

Wednesday, January 16, 2019

She thinks I can’t see her hiding as she watches me clean her damn barf out of the damn carpet

We had our first full run-through of The Full Monty on our set tonight, and our big strippy finale was LIT!

The gym tonight is (please select all):

1. Teeming with masculine pulchritude
2. Collectively doing chest, shoulders and triceps because EVERYONE’S USING THE EQUIPMENT I WANT
3. Celebrating the entire discography of Wilson Phillips
4. Rudely ignoring the awesomeness of my Mew Mew Kitty shirt
5. Bringing back the man-bun

Hiss! Pfffft!

Seven years ago right now, my now-ex and I were embroiled in an epic war launched by our downstairs neighbors whose delicate constitutions were incompatible with the deafening pitter-pats of eight velvety kitten paws touching our floors. The neighbors retaliated by blaring explosion-filled video games on their TV speakers non-stop and filing a noise complaint with our condo board—after pissing off the board president by putting a passive-aggressive note on his windshield because they were unable to tolerate the way he parked within the lines of his own parking spot. I responded to their complaint with a full-artillery manifesto destroying everything about them so blisteringly that they literally broke their lease and moved out within a month. (I must find that manifesto and post it here in the spirit of lingering pettiness. If I remember correctly, it’s quite a masterpiece of laser-focused vitriol.) But as a lovely benefit from all this drama, to show my due diligence in attempting to quell the deafening pitter-pats of eight velvety kitten paws thundering through our floors, I bought us this gorgeous pitter-pat-silencing rug:

Tuesday, January 15, 2019


RIP, Miss Channing

You know those pop-out glass balconies on the Skydeck of the Willis (née Sears) Tower in Chicago?

Six years ago I went to a fancy-schmancy fundraiser up there with a bunch of fancy-schmancy gay guys I barely knew ... on what ended up being the foggiest evening in perhaps all of Chicago history.

But we wouldn't let the weather ruin our party. As they say: When life gives you fog, make Charlie's Angles poses with your fellow fags.

Or something like that.

OK ... I'll jump on the bandwagon:


1. Played a murderer - yes
2. Played an animal - no
3. Played a character opposite your gender - in a couple of drag cabaret shows
4. Worked with an Oscar/Tony/Emmy winner - not that I’m aware of
5. Undressed on stage - oh yes … and I’m about to again
6. Had a stage kiss - yes
7. Played a ghost - no
8. Been a stage manager – no
9. Been on tech crew – in high school, and I will again in a few months
10. Worn fake eyeglasses – yes
11. Worn contact lenses – in one eye that was supposed to be blind
12. Been in a staged fight - yes
13. Missed a cue - just a few lines over the years
14. Walked off stage during a scene to fix your costume - no
15. Scolded someone for touching your prop? – gently
16. Been in a musical – DUH
17. Been in a Shakespeare production – just in a few isolated scenes
18. Forgotten a line on stage - yes
19. Forgotten a prop on stage – no
20. Had a wardrobe malfunction on stage - a hat with a wig glued inside it once fell off my head
21. Been nude on stage - starting January 25 at Theatre Cedar Rapids!
22. Eaten real food on stage - no
23. Choked on real food during a show on stage - also no
25. Been injured during a show - nothing serious
26. Torn up the set by accident onstage during a show - no
27. Broken a prop onstage during a show - indirectly
28. Had a nosebleed onstage - no
29. Played a character of a different race – no
30. Been paid for a performance - yes
31. Played a musical instrument for a performance - yes
32. Sung in a show – DUH
33. Farted on stage during a show - gross, no
34. Made noise backstage during a show – only on purpose
35. Cut your hair onstage during a show - no
36. Simulated sex onstage - no
37. Ad-libbed until another actor made his/her entrance - yes
38. Played a child – only when I was an actual child
39. Been punched in the face accidentally onstage - no
40. Played a lawyer – no
41. Killed another character on stage - only offstage, if that counts
42. Died on stage – almost, if that counts
43. Played a drunk on stage – yes
44. Choreographed a show – not a formal musical, but I’ve co-choreographed Follies and choreographed more show choirs than I can remember
45. Directed a show – no
46. Designed a set - only in my head
47. Helped build a set - yes
48. Ushered/house managed a show – no
50. Helped make costumes for a show - emphasis on helped
51. Experienced effects of a theater ghost - I don’t believe in ghosts
52. Done a lighting design - no
53. Done sound design - no
54. Used dialects – extremely, extremely poorly
55. Gotten a bad review – not that I can remember
56. Done children's theater – yes
57. Worked with animals - no
58. Improvised to cover a technical issue – just broken props
59. Performed in outdoor theater - no
60. Fired a prop gun onstage - I’ve held many prop guns on stage, but I don’t remember having to fire any

There’s a social-media story currently making the rounds about three people laughing at an obese person at a gym

and the narrator of the story heroically stepping in to boost the sobbing victim’s self-esteem plus get the three people banned from the gym. The narrative in this particular story is too clumsily and implausibly detailed for it to be remotely true, but the message behind it is certainly something that haunts the minds of everyone new to working out at a gym.

Allow me to offer my personal insights:

I’ve worked out almost daily for 30 years, in that time belonging to nine gyms and using guest passes at countless more. The gyms ranged from high-end fitness clubs to trendy name-brand gyms to grungy, metal-banger gyms. I’ve worked out with trainers, I’ve had lifting buddies and I’ve worked out on my own among a crowd of regulars I’ve gotten to know. I’ve observed the full continuum of gym members from hardcore bodybuilders to stand-and-model stereotypes to the out-of-shape first-timers from the social-media story … and I have never once seen or heard anyone making fun of a gym member for showing up and trying to get fit. Ever.

I know that my experience does not represent the entirety of gym experiences everywhere--and I also know that some people in any setting are just truly horrible and judgmental and cruel--but if you’re reading this and feeling afraid to join a gym to improve your fitness and health and even your personal vanity because you want to be hotter (and I’m saying this as someone who very openly works out for all three of these reasons), please know that you are way--WAY!--more likely to encounter people who will applaud and encourage and respect you than make fun of you.

Caveat: If they even notice you at all. Many people who go to gyms are there to focus on their own workouts or to socialize with their friends as they work out together, and you--like the rest of the people in the gym--will barely even register on their radar.

So please. If you’re wanting to join a gym, do it!

Some unsolicited DO pointers from me:
* Pick a gym that’s geographically convenient--near your house or work or on your daily route through town.
* Talk to the staff to tell them what you’re interested in doing and accomplishing when you join. Usually there are tiered membership packages so you won’t have to pay for facilities and services--like pool access and group classes--you don’t have any interest in using.
* If there are showers and you plan on using them, ask if there is towel service. It’s best to find this out up-front than when you’re standing naked and wet in the locker room wondering how you’re going to dry off.
* Ask for instructions and help using the equipment if you don’t know how. Gyms are VERY interested in you not injuring yourself, and the staff will usually be very helpful in making sure you know what you’re doing--and that you’re doing it correctly and safely.
* Within reason, ask other members if they can help you figure out how to use unfamiliar equipment. Remember that other members are not employees there to do your bidding, but usually people will be happy--and non-judgmental--about showing you how something works.
* If you have the money, hire a trainer. I had one (a big, hot, mean bodybuilder hell-bent on making me weep for mercy) for five years in Chicago. It cost a zillion dollars, but I budgeted for it and I let him beat the living hell out of me three times a week … and I got results I wanted and I never once regretted the expense. Plus he taught me correct form and showed me how to lift and use everything properly, and now that I don’t have him I know how to kick my own ass at the gym.
* When you get more experienced and start lifting higher weights, ask me now to navigate the social hierarchy of the Dudebro Spotters Network(R) for assistance.
* Actually, you may have to show ME how to do this; I break out in cold flopsweat whenever I have to ask someone to spot me.

Some unsolicited DON’T pointers from me:
* Don’t sit around on the equipment playing on your phone or chatting with your friends. Do that somewhere else where you won’t be in people’s way and impeding their workouts and frankly pissing them off.
* Don’t pick up your dumbbells and then use them right in front of the dumbbell rack so you’re blocking access to the other dumbbells. If I see you doing this, I *will* elbow my way in front of you in the middle of your workout to get whatever dumbbells you’re blocking even if I don’t need them. I will also give you a withering stare.
* Don’t FOR THE LOVE OF GOD wear heavy perfume or cologne--or, on the other end of the spectrum, show up stinking like sour ass--when you work out. The more you sweat, the more your stink spreads throughout the gym, and it can cause a legitimate safety issue if it makes people cough when they’re breathing hard and lifting heavy weights.
* Don’t leave your gross sweat all over everything. If your gym doesn’t have spray bottles and paper towels--and I’ve never seen a gym that doesn’t--bring a towel of your own to wipe up after yourself if you know you’re a chronic sweater.
* Don’t stand and pose and admire yourself in the mirrors. You’ll look like an idiot, you’ll no doubt be in someone’s way … and this is the one exception where people WILL mock you behind your back. Mercilessly.

If you heed only one of my unsolicited pointers, make it be this:
* If you have any doubt how to use a piece of equipment or if you think you might need help managing some heavy weights, ASK SOMEONE. Putting yourself in danger is not only a danger to you, but it forces everyone around you to have to keep an eye on you in case they have to jump in and save you if a barbell drops on your chest or a cable might rip your shoulder out of its socket. What’s more, you’re potentially putting everyone around you at a legal risk for not helping you or for inadvertently injuring you if they do help you.

SO GO! Make a commitment. Find a gym. Ask a friend to join you. Wear clothes that you feel comfortable and not self-conscious in (but that aren’t so loose that they could get caught in the equipment). SHOW UP. THEN KEEP SHOWING UP. Talk about it on social media to keep yourself accountable.

Everyone around you at every level of fitness has walked into a gym for the first time not knowing what to do. So you’re always among friends.

Monday, January 14, 2019

Good night!

Back, Biceps and



If anyone wants an expired box of Chef Robert Irvine’s Fit Crunch Baked Whey Protein Bars in confetti-colored birthday-cake flavor that I just found in the bottom of a desk drawer, don’t look at me; there isn’t a person on this planet (with eight or nine exceptions) I’d let choke to death on their unrelenting, not-unsawdustlike vileness.

#SparksOfJoy: A weekly post about something that makes me happy

Jean Sibelius: Symphony No. 2: An early 20th Century work that opens with a gorgeous, watery, almost circular pulse that deliciously grows and evolves and eventually explodes in a brassy, anthemic, triumphant statement of hearty Scandinavian pride. Its ebbing and flowing between muted contemplation and rousing, full-brass glory are textbook Romanticism, though it was written (in 1902) two years after the Romantic movement in music is conventionally defined as ending. I discovered this symphony via a CD that was shipped to me in error from an order I’d placed from a CD club in the mid-1990s, and I was literally enraptured by it within hearing its first subtle, pulsing phrases. Since then, I’ve heard it live more times than I can count, including once from the chorus seats (which are sold to the public for performances that don’t involve a chorus) above the Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s mighty brass section in Chicago’s Orchestra Hall. The experience was profoundly transcendent for me.

Fun fact: Sibelius is probably most famous for his stirring 1889 tone poem Finlandia, which was written as a covert protest against growing censorship against the Russian Empire.

Saturday, January 12, 2019

Diary entry: January 12, 2019

Miss Bridget has dined this evening on an amuse-bouche crisp biscuit in a whimsical bone shape, a prix-fixe entrée of locally scooped, hand-poured dark kibble, and an apéretif of fresh water à la faucet.

She is now perusing the nap menu in the front salon.

Alexa, stop playing 1950s rock

... no matter how pleadingly my dad asks you to.

My Facebook How Hard Has Aging Hit Me Challenge didn’t stray from the genre of headshots.

Nor of scruffy-dude-I-woke-up-like-this. And it took me 15 years, but at least I’ve stopped smirking like a wannabe-badass.


Snapping groin injuries at the squat rack are cripplingly painful and all ...

but you don’t know TRULY debilitating pain until you’ve put your hand in the pocket of your polyester knit track pants while you have a hangnail.

Friday, January 11, 2019

Who has two shaky typing thumbs and just did four sets of 10 incline presses WITH 65 LB DUMBBELLS?

THIS PRETTY PROUD (and shocked) GUY!

It's January 11 and I've already broken my resolution to not engage with dipshit assholes on social media

But I didn't specify RACIST dipshit assholes in my resolution, and I'm not putting up with any of their cousin-curious bullshit ... especially from this first dude, who's too chicken to show his Master Race face in his profile when he defends racist shitholes like Steve King.

DO. NOT. BE. RACIST. Especially in front of me.

Thursday, January 10, 2019

What’s my favorite muscle group to work in the gym solely because it’s so fun to say?


What’s my least favorite muscle group to work in the gym because my rhomboids are so chronically weak that I always have to use the Barbie(R) You WISH You Had Rhomboids, Punk!TM Dream Weights(R)?


What’s your muscle-group vocabulary lesson of the day?


(Trick question! I’m actually secretly thinking about the pancreas so today’s vocabulary lesson is the islets of Langerhans! But here’s a picture of the rhomboids just because rhomboids is so fun to say.)


NPR’s Rachel Martin just spent five minutes trying to get straight, truthful answers about the border/shutdown shit show from White House Director of Strategic Communications (which is a fancy American way of saying Minister of Propaganda) Mercedes Schlapp, who kept greasily trying to change the subject and misrepresent selective truths in an effort to blanket-blame Democrats and RACHEL WASN’T HAVING IT as she quoted facts and played clips contradicting Mercedes’ scripted talking points and interrupted her desperate wandering AND I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE WHOOPED AND OH-NO-YOU-DI-HINT-ED AT ALEXA MORE THAN ONCE as Mercedes descended into audible flop sweat. She was clearly used to fielding softball questions from the Fox ilk—and I have NO idea what possessed her to attempt to defend the indefensible in a forum like NPR that always does its homework—but it was a very satisfying way to begin my day.

Wednesday, January 09, 2019

When you’re all psyched up for a killer leg workout

but when you warm up at the squat rack you feel the tiniest hint of a twinge of an old tendon injury deep in your awkward buttish region so in the interest of preserving your ability to walk you have to abruptly pick another body part to work out as you bob and choke in a bewildering sea of whatdoIdonowness so you decide to do chest and triceps but you’ve been thinking about destroying your quads all day so your head just isn’t in it but speaking of my head here’s an artistically composed pec-deck portrait of me and my phrenology shirt.

I fucking hate this racist man-boy shithole

Monday, January 07, 2019

Today in NO!

We got Dad an Echo for his birthday in October, and he’s been delightedly asking it to play every song or musical group that’s ever occurred to him ever since.

Unfortunately, he’s run out of acceptable material to listen to, because he just asked Alexa to play an open-ended run of Ferrante & Teicher, and NO! We might as well install a Formica-paneled elevator in the living room and ride it in endless uncomfortable silence as the dulcet F&T song stylings play unsettlingly on low-fi speakers in the background.

In the time it took me to type this, we’ve endured “The Way You Look Tonight,” a samba-flavored reinterpretation of the theme from “A Summer Place” and, as we speak, something Alexa just informed me is called “African Echoes” on bongos and zithers and endless waves of profound cultural discomfort.


Things that get you beaten up at the gym:

• Rainbows
• Stars
• Pastels
• Failure
• Cutsie-poo shirts
• Saying cutsie-poo
• Stealth selfies
• Calling them stealthfies

In my decapitating-headache haze this morning, I still managed to pack for the gym. Just in case. My mind wasn’t really in the game (as the sportsie-poo dudes say) after work, but a big shaker full of Blue Raspberry C4 Sport Pre-Workout magic re-lit my pilot light quite nicely, and I must say I now have the chest and triceps of a 25-year-old competitive bodybuilder. They’re buried in a shallow grave under the porch, but still.

Speaking of (my workouts, not murder), do you want to know the difference between a pre-50 workout and a post-50 workout? Of course you do: It’s abs. Before I was 50, if I accidentally sneezed I counted it as a week’s worth of abs workouts. Now that I’m 50 (as rumor has it), I have an unhealthy obsession with my waistline and I won’t leave the gym without going all Geneva Convention on my abdominals. Which, coincidentally, makes sneezing extra-super-fun.

But pain is weakness leaving the body. I saw that on a T-shirt once. And it wasn’t pastel.

Ugh redux

In today's early, cruel dawn, last night's debilitating head cold escalated into a decapitating headache that felt like I had a metal band slowly tightened around my head to the point that it was cracking my skull above my eyes. And aside from the allusion to decapitation, that description was barely an exaggeration.

And when I tried to crawl up the stairs this morning to whimper in the early, cruel, pain-exploding sunlight in the hopes of eventually going to work, I saw why my night had been so excruciating: Bitch Kitty had laid a curse--an incatation, if you will--on me in the night. And she was waiting at the top of the stairs to watch her nefarious Grand Guignol play out to its gruesome, wailing conclusion:
But joke's on you, Bitch Kitty! I have to go to work so I can justify going to the gym to get mega-hot so I can go to Full Monty rehearsal so I can mega-sing about being mega-hot SO I FOUGHT THROUGH THE PAIN AND I WIN. This time.