FAILSAUCE McAWKWARDPANTS

Miking people is an unusually awkward job. There are so many choices of situations for the techie to make things awkward. There's a whole lot of bras and skin and face-poking and really tight man-pants involved. Then, there are situations that happen every day (and some that don't.) Usually there’s the whole ‘under-shirt’ conversation, which usually goes like this:

ME: Mmmkay now, this has to go under your shirt. (It has been this way now for seven days.)

ACTOR: **Blank stare**

ME: Um. Do you want to do this, or shall I?

ACTOR: Oh, let me. **Struggles, leaving poor techie to awkwardly stand there and occasionally brush shoulder of actor or randomly feel up mike box under shirt**

Of course, from here, there are two kinds of actors: The suave, usually younger, ones who can handle it all by themselves during costume changes, and then the older, helpless ones, whose skin I see entirely too much of. The women I’m okay with, because it’s women, and they’re easy to talk to and stuff, even when they randomly decide to take their shirt mostly off in front of an entire theatre. My brain basically goes, okay, bra. Okay, clip. Awesome. and then it’s done for the day and has a tea party, unless said actress is a little girl, which is another thing entirely. Then I feel like I’m assaulting them. This is not good for your self esteem.

But men. Jeez. This gender really does not work well with mikes. First of all, they’ve got icky skin. I’m sorry, but they just do. I really do not enjoy being the face-sweat bitch and carrying around alcohol swabs with which to attack faces with, which is awkward for both parties. Excuse me, but your glands are interfering with my mike…and then I feel bad because they look at me all condescendingly like, woman, when is it your place to be all up and wiping my face like I am a baby butt? Go back to your corner, foo’. Then I’ve got to tackle the tape-placement: Too close to eye, or on part of hair? Because surgical tape is fricking surgical tape, and it doesn’t want to stick to anything BUT hair, so basically I cringe internally while taping guys, because I’m gonna have to be the one to rip their whole sideburn off later.
Then there are the people that it’s just awkward to mike, even if they can handle their own mike box placement and everything. Like one certain person at a play I’m working: let’s just call him Gorgeous Man. Generally I don’t have to mike him, but the two times I have in the past two days, there have been some super witty conversations.

ME: **tape tape**

GM: **stares off into distance**

ME: Eww. Your hair is gross.

GM: Sorry, it’s just water.

**Silence**

ME: *thinking* There is no friggin’ way this is just water. What the hell is this??? It’s all sticky and gross….okay….not gonna say that out loud…but seriously. Is this bacon grease? Or lard or something? Do men still gel their hair with that? Or is that just in Kentucky? Why do you ruin your hair with bacon-lard, oh Gorgeous Man?

In the end I settled for, “Okay, you’re done.”

Returning to the helpless older ones, let me just tell you. I have a story that can only be played out in pictures, it was so…well. It played out like a bad movie.















…So yeah. Add that to Charlie dying on Lost (But being miraculously revived!!---but he still died, which was traumatizing) and I’m in hysterics. Add THAT to a conversation on man-nipples, some drawings of naked stick-figure ho’s, a lot of unnecessary tech love drama, and I start to wonder why I take this every day.

Awkwardsauce and Spaghetti

So Prom was today, and from eight in the morning to two in the morning the next day, I was on the move. Woke up, painted toenails to match my definitely Les Mis-inspired Red and Black prom theme, went to KK’s without ANY makeup on (apparently I look the same. Huh.) in Philip who conveniently matched my toenails, drove Jenny to the Salon Vole (running a red light…eh heh) where we proceeded to be prodded and poked by frowning super-tan L.A Barbie dolls who told both me and Jenny that we had terrible skin. Because of this, let me relay what happened:

LA. BARBIE: (frowning. This pulls the corner of her super-masky face down, giving it the appearance of melted plastic) (chewing bubble gum with New York accent) Honey, you’ve got terrible skin. I can’t put foundation on it or you’ll cake. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH
RACHAEL: (doesn’t have time to close mouth and is therefore sprayed in mouth by huge, ominous spray-can thing busily being wielded by L.A. Barbie) Mmmmphhh!!
LA. BARBIE: (Brandishes powder and airbrushy tool, spraying in huge quantities) I told you, foundation would make you cake up. (Holds finger on nozzle for a full minute) *SPPPRRRRTTTT*
RACHAEL: (Totters back over to seat, entirely submerged in airspray-skin stuff) I feel like a cupcake.



Anyway, after that loveliness was done, said airspray thing in slightly different colour was applied to my hair, which I basically chose as my normal hair, just professionally curly instead of super-Froseph9 hillbilly curls. This held it in place like a helmet, and I was really tempted to sing Hairspray songs. After Mrs. Warkow forked up a humongous sum of dough for all that, me, Jenny and KK walked back out, slightly stiff, into the actual sunlight instead of the supremely fake world of the cool black floor, gay guys in black skinny ties with spiky faux-hawks, and chill pop-jazz music without words. Driving back was fun, I definitely had some road rage (That’s an understatement…someone wanted to park in the spot I had territorially claimed, so I screamed, “OH NO YOU DON’T, BITCH!” and reversed wildly, leaving Jenny in nervous giggles) and we went home ‘the scenic way’, which we all know is just another word for ‘the way that we go when Rachael drives the wrong way, totally convinced it’s the right way to Jenny’s house, and they’re actually heading towards Michigan’.
Part 2: Drive home with 25 miles to empty to get money for gas, food, and boutonniere (which, in fancy terms, means ‘eight-dollar-man-corsage’) and drag complaining sister to the gas station with me because they scare me. Man is that woman critical. At least I’m creatively critical; she couldn’t stop complaining about my driving. I’ll go like three miles over the speed limit and she’s contemplating calling the police. But at the gas station, she actually deserved to critique me: I paid in advance for 30 dollars worth of gas for ‘pump 6’, the pump I was parked at. Little did I know I was actually parked at pump 8 and would have to go all the way around to the other side to get gas. However, I stood at pump 8 trying to pump gas into my car for ten minutes, without success, and any hooligan could have come along and stolen the gas waiting patiently at pump 6. When I finally realized my mistake (and much bent-over swearing ensued) I got back in the car, and puzzled as to how to get into pump 6, since the side the gas nozzle was on on my car was on the opposite side at this pump. My brilliant plan was to do a three-point turn in reverse into the pump, though there were cars all around me. IT WAS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF THE MATRIX, I TELL YOU. Only it didn’t look as cool and it took like three more movies to complete. I finally squeezed into the spot and then had problems telling when to stop the gas. Helpfully, this sketchy old man in a wifebeater with a fisherman’s hat with pins in it and a white beard told me when to stop, then proceeded to chat pleasantly about my car, even though by now I’d been at the gas station for thirty-five minutes and was hell-of-a-late to pick up my boutonniere. My sister by now was entirely enraged at my crappy driving so I had to buy her a candy bar to get her to shut up. Then, I realized I hadn’t eaten and I was in a grocery store with tons of money and I could buy ANYTHING I WANTED FOR LUNCH. It was AMAZING. I ended up only buying a little can of fresh tomato basil soup and some mango Snapple, but it was the exhilaration of freedom, dammit.

((PROM PROM PROM PROM PROM))

and then it was over.

ANTICLIMATIC? NOT AT ALL.