June 22

Let’s just call the 22nd of June, especially this year, a Charlie Foxtrot.

It’s four friends’ birthday, two of whom I’ve known for 28 and 32 years respectively. So, it’s a special day.

This year we open Annie in an 11,000 seat house. (Or 12,000 depending on whom you talk to…but really after 5,000 who gives a flying fuck.*) After a 10-6 rehearsal on Saturday. A midnight to 4 am rehearsal Sunday morning and 1:30 to 5:30 Sunday afternoon sitzprobe. Btw, sitzprobe loosely translates to “anal probe,” and this is why I have been mysteriously silent as of late.

That and I’m really really really really deeply tragically tired.

It is also the fourth anniversary of my Dad’s passing.

Really?

Yes, Virginia, there is no Poppy Tisdale.

And this is the first year I’ve ventured to do something on this oh-so-sad date. I usually spend it camped out on my couch doing…um…zilch, zip, nada. Honestly, my mother and I tried to talk yesterday and became absolutely hysterical…two women who rarely become hysterical.

Should be interesting.

It’s made all the more plaintive since my sister and I used to scream the ditty “Hard Knock Life” at him. Considering the 72 orphan, slammy pail version they’re doing here, this little orphan’s gonna be wearing some heavy-duty deluge-proof mascara.

Hope I don’t scare the crap out of 72 kids.

There better be a brewski waiting in my dressing room for when the non-curtain falls. That’s all I’m sayin’.

*Why in hell do I feel the need to use Charlie Foxtrot but feel completely comfortable with flying fuck? Someone please explain.