ragingglesbians

[ragingglesbians]

When I try and write my #metoo stories (multiple) I can’t help but come back to one thing: my mom. Every opinion I formed about men – mainly that they were dangerous and only wanted sex - came from my mom’s beliefs. This is a photo of my mother in the 70s. Looking at her it’s hard to believe someone that stunning could be filled with so many insecurities and self-doubt, but then again it’s really not so hard to believe because this person is a woman. We’re dealing with generational patriarchal dysfunction that affects most women as far back as they can remember. Dysfunction that runs so deep some women, like my mom and her daughter, me, are reduced to a state of isolated addiction while they try to actively forget their past of pain, abandonment and abuse at the hands of men. But here’s what I try and remember as I sit married to a wonderful man who is making a living amends to his family and is working a program of sobriety, and as I raise a tender-hearted little gentleman: the men who do these things to women are sick. Sick to varying degrees. From Trump (completely unredeemable) to my husband, who has redeemed himself many times over. These men are told to deny their feelings, toughen up, and stuff their emotions for so long it’s really no wonder they’re angry or careless. Nora Samaran wrote an amazing article about how she believes the opposite of masculine rape culture is masculine nurturance culture and I believe this is the answer. I know we’re all hurting. I have been grabbed, harassed, insulted, demeaned, cornered by and afraid of men for years, and I’ve felt bottomless anger. But I can’t reconcile my hatred for the men who hurt me while I’m raising a boy. There needs to be a shift in both how we talk about this and how we think about moving forward. Share your stories, but remember that in order to make a change we first have to accept that humans are complicated and fragile and even some of the most horrible monsters are sometimes capable of change. I go into rooms of recovery and hear it all the time. Raise your sons to care for something other than them. Gift your boys a babydoll to feed and rock. Teach young men to love themselves so they can love others. And to the grown men with the gift of empathy for women, please, we beg of you, find another man and share it. Blame does not accomplish anything. We are all in this together. These are my opinions and they are in no way meant to negate any pain or suffering anyone else has experienced. The recounted trauma written by women I admire and love is horrifying. The stories are truly heartbreaking, nightmarish stuff. IT IS NOT OK. But I want us to remember that we have the power to change.

❤️

[ragingglesbians]

I just came. 

[ragingglesbians]

Bees and Bed Bugs

Never in my life have I been more thankful for bed bugs.

It was a Friday morning, my scheduled day to work in the salon. I finished up with my client--a friend--when I felt a familiar itch on the top of my sandaled foot. "Funny..." I thought as I bent down to scratch, "This feels like... Disturbingly like...an itch that can't be scratched." Somewhere deep down I knew what it was, but I dared not think the thought through for I knew that merely thinking about bed bugs could cause them to spontaneously appear like that creepy co-worker who's always mouth breathing and keeps his dirty cans of diet coke in the community ice bin. So I ignored the thought and showed my friend to the door. After all: there are no bed bugs in LA!

My friendly client exited through the front door completely unaware that buzzing overhead was a hive of ceiling bees discovered earlier that morning; between the insulation and the frosted light panels that made up the visible ceiling of the salon a swarm of bees had appeared overnight. I looked up with concern as they wandered around on the smooth, man-made plastic surface confused by their location and possibly also by the toxins seeping into their precious lungs from the salon below.

"We have to have someone come kill them," the owner said.

"I don't think they'll kill them...don't you know how much we need bees? I'm guessing they'll move them to an apiary nearby."

"What? What is that? They should just kill them. You're weird." 

(She may not have actually called me weird, but you know she thought it. I love worms too, lady.)

I walked back to my station, sat down and started playing around with the new polish and stamping plates I'd just ordered when suddenly... that's funny... it felt almost as if something was crawling up my thigh inside my new blue jumpsuit. I scratched my leg and went back to work. Funny! There it was again. And again. And then I grabbed a small something in between the fabric of my new blue jumpsuit, applied pressure, and it burst.

My heart sank. I knew what this was. The itch was familiar because I am extremely allergic to bed bugs; I knew the blood on my new blue jumper was my own, extracted from my sandaled foot. I rolled up my pant leg and pulled out what so many of us have come to know as "Devil Insecta"... a single bed bug.

I immediately went into a flop sweat of Niagara proportions as I texted the photo to my husband. We had gone through four rounds of bed bug infestation in our old Brooklyn apartment before realizing the calls were coming from inside the building and we were forced to move. The mere mention of bed bugs turns us as white as ghosts--this was a code red situation.

"THAT is a bed bug," my husband replied, and with that I went back to the break room to have what was my first and final chat with owner 1 of 3 of the salon.

The first chat because of the 3 owners, only one had ever taken the time to check in with me, get to know me, and talk to me on a regular basis. This owner, and the scariest of the three, had treated our relationship like a mean girl in high school treats the kid who can't afford new clothes-- whispers, snide comments and eye rolls. Things had been tense in the salon for a while and no matter what I did to get them on my side, they just didn't like me.

She was concerned about the bed bug, naturally. I gave her the ziplock I'd trapped it in and told her to contact an exterminator ASAP. Then, because we were talking and I felt bold, I asked her about a rumor she had confronted me with a day earlier. A rumor about me leaving to join forces with the 3rd, sane owner of the salon in October. I asked her about the brochure I'd left at my desk (nestled between the garbage can and towel bin behind my nail station, not visible to those not searching for evidence), which had mysteriously disappeared the following day/the day before she confronted me with this "rumor". Strange. She denied everything, refused to tell me where she'd heard this rumor, and yet, the brochure was nowhere to be found.

From there our conversation became heated as I assume she felt trapped, and before I knew it she was blaming all the problems of the salon on me. Not taking 1/3 of the responsibility like a business owner should, but blaming someone who has quietly worked there for two months without incident. *I* am the one making the salon tense. It's because of *me* the salon is not a fun, friendly environment. Not the two owners who have caused every employee they've ever had to quit...but ME. (I am still in contact with previous employees so I know.)

I was floored. I turned around, walked back to my space, texted my husband to bring a few big boxes and started cleared out my desk; I quit.

The reaction to my exit from the two salon owners was not surprising. They tried to turn me against the third who has been nothing but nice, honest and consistent the entire year I've known her. They smirked at my comments about the way I was treated and the tension in the salon and there is nothing I hate more than a mean girl who won't take responsibility for her actions.

It's taken me a while to understand when people are treating me poorly. I was so used to putting up with negativity, jealousy, backstabbing and worse with a woman I worked with for five years that I became numb to it. I was also very good at blaming myself. I was the fuck up, not them. I was the one causing problems... right? Turns out, I was wrong and glad to be.

For the next 24 hours I was bummed. I hadn't wanted to quit. I didn't have the money to quit. I had thrown thousands into starting my nail business and now I'd have almost a month and a half without clients.

But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that when you can't tell the shit from Shinola the universe has a funny way of making it stank. Without a doubt in my mind I can tell you that the one and only thing that would cause me to exit so abruptly, breaking my contract in the process, is a bed bug. And what are the chances that in my little spot in the back of a little salon in Atwater with almost no clients I would meet my motivator? Very, very slim. (The bees were a nice added incentive, too.)

I will have a new, private space in Glendale starting October 1st, and I swear to the universe that I will never again summon bed bugs to my feet with bad decisions or future alignments with terrible individuals.

Here's to being happy, healthy and BED BUG FREE!

Peace OUT.

[ragingglesbians]

Taking Care of G

Something happens to you when you watch someone die. Something changes inside and I imagine it's different for everyone. Me? I freaked the fuck out. Where there had once been fleeting, sometimes hilarious fears about the world around me and the many ways in which I could maim, emotionally hurt or otherwise dismember myself, there was now very real, very frightening and convincing panic that my world was going to end in an awful way.

Let's play the blame game! *clap clap! clap!* She's 5'4"! She's kinda great! But she can't see it, cuz she's constantly blaming herself for everything bad that has ever happened in her life.

*clap clap!*

Here's something I didn't know: guilt and remorse are close cousins. Really close. They sleep in bunk beds at family reunions and they like to make life really shitty for anyone around. I was already familiar with guilt, having spent a life trying to figure out how to please a very unstable parent. I started to see that same behavior in myself and that made the remorse kick in the door to say hey.

"If only..."

If only I'd been raised by him. If only I'd been more athletic. If only I could have been funnier, then I would have had a shot. If only I'd gone to college. If only, if only, send Glennis right over.

Fucking life.

And I started to get really sick of it; life. I started to feel like living like this, feeling this frustrated, upset, confused, angry and lost, for the rest of my life was just going to be too much. When do I get a break? When can I stop trying so hard? When do I get to be myself?

Hey lady, you lady? Cursin' at your life...

I've been to Georgia and California, but I've never been to me. I've never been to Paris. I've never seen the fireflies on the Mae Klong river in Thailand. I've never owned an island. I've never become the face of change for Alzheimer's disease. I've never had children and I never will. I can't. I'm too afraid. I'm afraid of it all because I don't know who I am.

I know this is all over the place, and it's probably not going to make sense to anyone at this point, but I need to write. I need to write and be heard in order to break myself out of this prison I've been in. A prison where I am bad and everything I do, worthless. And I know saying these words is going to shock a few people. Probably the people who know me best. Because I don't tell anyone what's going on deep down in the depths. The depths that have been collecting my shame and guilt and storing my anger since I was eight. 

I'm working through it. I'm in a better place now. I still have to remind myself every day to think about #1. Not in the way that I used to: constant reminders of my lack of self worth, reminders that I was hated by everyone, gentle nudges in the direction of disappearing all together, but in a healthy way. A way that starts, "What do I need right now and how can I make that happen?" It's putting my devotion to the happiness of others onto myself, and it's hard as hell.

What I've realized is it's not about what I need in the moment, but what I need overall. In the moment I need coffee or alcohol or weed or all of the fries, but usually just alcohol. Alcohol kills the mobs in my brain and makes for a nice evening out, sometimes followed by shitting and/or puking my brains out, always by crying.

Overall what I needed was a complete overhaul. Body, mind, soul; life. A purge, a cleanse, a ghost bust, whatever you want to call it.

I'd clean out my house first. Years of collected shit I'd lug from one apartment to the next because I'd need it some day. I never needed it and now it's gone.

Then, my body. From cigarettes, caffeine, alcohol, and finally, most processed foods. (Going on month five/I still treat myself.)

I exercise every day. I'm sticking to it (Day 32), and I'm feeling happier and seeing the benefits. Endorphins!

Finally, Grand Central Station; my brain. The one benefiting from the endorphins, finally, at long last. Also the one organ I've thought about every day since he died. Since I watched him from the sidelines as he lived an extraordinary life, only to see him shrivel into nothing in front of my eyes. Since then, my brain is everything. It's the most powerful tool on the planet and I'm ashamed at how I've ignored it for all these years. My brain is messed up. My thinking is backward and my memories are hidden. The discipline required to stay healthy has given me the confidence to retrain my brain and to recognize the shitty negative thinking so I can squash it.

I'm writing this because I have to get it out. I can't sit on my couch day in and day out, getting stoned, staring at the TV because I can't face the fact that life isn't perfect and what happened was really fucking unfair. I need to write, I need to feel proud of what I've done, and I need to move more of this junk out of my brain so I can get back to what I really love. And I know I'm not the only one who has felt so low, I'm writing this for you, too, friend. Hang in there.

Now pack your fucking bags because it's time to go to ME.

[ragingglesbians]

A Review of a Review - 50 Shades of Confussion

Kelsey DeMeire, a self proclaimed "Freelance Journalist & Blogger" took to the internet yesterday to share her opinion of our show "50 Shades! The Musical" with a scathing review entitled, "50 Shades the Musical is bleak & humorless". Forthwith, I shall commence in reviewing her review.

While poorly written and extremely confusing, this scathing "review" did manage to do a few things well. For starters, it posted live to the internet for the world to see; bravo! You know how to work a computer! I also enjoyed the ways in which you insulted our entire cast at once saying our acting was "corny" and that we were "understandingly unattractive". I wish there were more brave souls like you to stand up for what you believe in: perfect 10s in the theatre! Talent be damned! Beat it, uggos! For a second I considered bashing your grasp of the English language and poor sentence structure in my review of your review, but thought better since I'm no laureate, and I don't often take to judging someone for something I'm not able to do myself.

I will say, however, that I was a bit concerned with the way in which it seems you've connected to the 50 Shades material. Do you think it's real? You called yourself a "religious reader" of the book...I'm still unsure if you yourself are religious, or if you just read the book every night in the tub as the sun sets? It's also a bit disconcerting that you were unable to decipher which character was which in our tiny, 8-person cast! Were you dropped on your head a lot as a child? (Again, I only say that because I was.) Either way, you know Christian isn't coming for you no matter how hard you read, right? You know he's not real? Just checking.

I'm also SO sorry, dear Kelsey, that we couldn't be the live sex show you wanted to see. You mentioned the only characters with shades of grey were the two scantily-clad dancers. Might I recommend Tijuana? Just get in your car and drive south; if you hit the water you're doing it right.

Overall, I give this review a 3 out of 10 scars: low scores for writing and comprehension, but points for actor bashing and true props for taking the time to create something instead of sitting around on Twitter RT-ing shiny baubles to your 24 followers. That being said, Kelsey, in my eyes you'll always be a zero.

Read the review: http://www.digmagonline.com/1865/events/50-shades-the-musical-is-bleak/

Follow Kelsey on Twitter @DeMeiresDose

[ragingglesbians]

It's basically my fantasy come true. As if my own flesh and blood desires were turned into reality. BUT WHEN I ASK YOU WHEN??? #mailinglist

[ragingglesbians]

RL YES!

Boy do I feel stupid! (That’s a lie, I never feel stupid because I’m very, very smart.)

What I mean is, dear Glesbians, I spent years and years—five to be exact—shoving pills containing god knows what in my face, and thousands of dollars in the hands of the pharmaceutical companies--the worst kind of company--when all this time I could have cured myself.

"No thanks, big Pharma; I've Marie Curied myself."

*ZING*

I honestly didn’t think it would happen this quickly, but since my post on Monday I have cut out alcohol, caffeine, fast food (I am trying to eat foods with limited ingredients and NO high fructose corn syrup), and have been exercising (kind of) and I am happy to report that last night I slept through the night without a pill like a BIG BITCH.

Here’s the hilarious part: thanks to my pal Vince, who discovered this gem on John Tesh’s Facebook—sage advice being doled out daily on his FB and Twitter, people—I may have discovered the key to curing my RLS once and for all: tonic water.

Say, say, say, what? That’s right, tonic water. It occurred to me, after sleeping well through the night post-consumption, that I used to love gin & tonics. In fact, I drank them all the time with an ex and only stopped drinking them because they reminded me of him. 

I SAID HOT DAMN!!!

I still have a few pills left as a security blanket. The anxiety surrounding needing a good night of sleep can make the legs worse, I think, but YAY! I am on the right track and have them, should I need them.

The worst part of any of this, while I do love my hooch, was giving up caffeine. I had a solid caffeine withdrawal headache for two days straight. I also want to add that I started to beat myself up over how easy this was and how I should have done this years ago, but then I considered that I might not have been able to do this years ago. Only now is it this important to me to get off those pills and clean my body. So I stopped beating myself up and instead enjoyed a nice, hot cup of Sanka, which is just like coffee if you have no taste buds.

Life!

[ragingglesbians]

Reverse Frenchie Update

A little beauty update for those interested: Because of my father passing earlier this year I was unable to take my nail licensing test with the CA board. I'm happy to say I've resubmitted, and that, once licensed, I'll be with the lovely women over at The Atwater Parlour for my booth rental--I literally can't wait, and I thank them for their patience! I love my little home salon, but I know people prefer a salon environment. Second: I have wavered back and forth between whether or not to offer gels and acrylics and I've decided that, yes, I will offer both. I will still stress natural, healthy nails and try to persuade clients to go natural, but I've realized this is what the people want so who am I to deny? I'll be taking the necessary precautions to protect myself (I'll set to making a cute face mask to avoid the dangerous acrylic dust) and my clients (air purifier). Lastly: I am still planning on attending cosmetology school I'm just not sure when. Let's get the aforementioned in order first and the jam on the tresses. And now you're up to date. Book nails with me in my cute home salon by emailing glennisnails@gmail.com, and stay tuned for updates on the booth rental.

[ragingglesbians]

RL HELL

I have Restless Leg Syndrome. It used to wreak havoc on my life until I took a sleep study and figured shit out. I was prescribed Mirapex and have been taking it since 2008. 

Sleep Study Chic

Mirapex works! I sleep for the most part. The medication gives me crazy dreams, which I become very invested in, but the sleep is better than without the pills. Only, I hate taking pills. I don’t take any other medication, and I try to avoid pills whenever possible; there’s already enough dangerous shit going into my/our bodies every day. And once I eventually decide to have children I won’t be able to take the pills anyway, which is not worrisome at all!

So I’ve decided to ween myself and g-au natural.

The chemicals aren’t the reason to quit: I’m also spending an average of $160 a month on the medication. I’m currently uninsured, and the generic brand, which doesn’t work for me, caused the brand name to sky rocket in cost. What a system.

What I’ll have to do to get off these pills will require a complete overhaul of my current habits.

1. No caffeine

Sometimes I dream about that first cup of coffee. About getting up at the crack of dawn to Keurig my first cup, or feeding my Starbucks addiction. I love the taste, I love the smell, I love the routine; I love everything about coffee. This is going to blow eskimos.

2. Exercise

I’m pretty good about exercising, but now I’ll need to at least do a long walk every day. NBD

3. Eat well

I love food. I will pretty much eat anything (save the disgusting “meat” Yoshinoya serves with their beef bowl what the h is that stuff, guys) and because we’re on a budget, I’ll eat whatever is available. HOT POCKETS. This is a good, necessary change because I have the eating habits of a monster.

4. Other

Wearing socks to bed, taking a warm bath before, meditation, yoga; all easy enough to implement.

Basically, this is something that will affect my life positively overall. All I have to do is DO it, which is not something I’m great at. So wish me luck, folks…this ain’t no popped pill.

AMENDED: ALSO NO ALCOHOL KILL ME NOW

[ragingglesbians]

Past and present: balloons of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade A storm bearing down on the East Coast with a messy mix of snow, rain and wind is threatening to ground giant balloon versions of Snoopy and SpongeBob SquarePants in the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The iconic characters that soar between the Manhattan skyscrapers every year may not lift off Thursday if sustained winds exceed 23 mph and gusts exceed 34 mph, according to city rules enacted after fierce winds in 1997 caused a Cat in the Hat balloon to topple a light pole and seriously injure a woman spectator. (AP)

(Archive photos via Getty Images) See more images of the parade and our other slideshows on Yahoo News!

[ragingglesbians]

[ragingglesbians]

Phylicia Rashad and Debbie Allen by Moneta Sleet, Jr.

[ragingglesbians]

Guys With Fancy Lady Hair

[ragingglesbians]

image credit to

[ragingglesbians]

I just aged 50 years. 😵

Today, we are all gynecologists.

[ragingglesbians]

Julie and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

- Episode 132 of the How Was Your Week?

I rediscovered Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, so that’s something. How come that Clay Aiken photograph isn’t a meme, like the way that you see, you know, Grumpy Cat or … wasn’t there that disapproving Asian father? That wasn’t racist. But why don’t I see that photo of Clay Aiken in his coat of many colors constantly, why hasn’t that taken over the Internet? That makes me feel like the Internet is a hetero … gene — no, that’s not the right word. Homophobic, I’ll just call the Internet homophobic.

(sighs) Clay Aiken will do justice to that role, I feel, because if you don’t know the story of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, it goes like this: The Narrator comes out, she’s one of like two female roles. The other’s Potiphar’s wife and she’s a slut. Oh, I slut-shamed Potiphar’s wife within five minutes of my monologue.

The Narrator comes in and she talks about how some people have bigger ambitions than others and some people have intentions to be more on this Earth than the schlubs who will mouth breathe on their crossword puzzles when you’re just trying to get to 34th street … without having their long hair brush against your bare skin. That is the thing I’m looking forward to most in Fall, is being on the subway and not feeling someone’s hair brush against my skin just because I happen to be sitting or standing next to them. There’s literally nothing worse.

Anyway, the Narrator — who I played in camp … then there was a British counselor that kept telling me to wear a waistcoat and I was like, “What are you talking about? What’s my costume?” She goes “Get a waistcoat, get a waistcoat.” I found out that she was talking about a vest, which I found because it was 1989, everything worked out great.

Anyway, the Narrator, who’s really the main character, I mean, you wanna be the Narrator, sets up the story about Jacob, whose wife died and had a lot of sons and he very blatantly favored one, which was a recipe for resentment. And the one he favored reminded him of his wife … which is not explored. Tim Rice — I almost said Tim Rice was many things, but he really wasn’t, he was just a lyricist … until Andrew Lloyd Weber was having no more of him. And for good reason, because Tim Rice is not a good lyricist. He’s just not. I’m not gonna qualify that, I’m not going to apologize for it. It’s just a fact. There are worse things to be … but not many.

(sighs) What was I up to in the story? The father bought a colored coat for Joseph because he liked him best and then at this point in the show Clay Aiken will spin around. He will just never stop spinning around … to show off the coat. And I also think it’s weird — and not just because I’m Dolly Parton-centric — but I think it’s weird that Jacob bought the coast instead of made it.

Now, where are we up to? Joseph has a coat, he’s being kind of a cock about it. He talks about how great he looks in it. I don’t remember how he’s a cock about it but he’s a cock about it. And then the brothers decide to … kill him? They get mad. One of the lyrics has to do with like “getting our goat” and then there is a goat and they kill the goat. I think at one point they’re like “We’re gonna kill him” and then they said “no” or maybe Benjamin said “no”?

Benjamin’s the youngest. Benjamin was the second favorite. In the Bible it was perfectly okay to rank your children. Different parenting ideas, although as I say that, count down to the next fucking blog to book deal of some asshole in Brooklyn saying “Wouldn’t it be fun if I raised my children for a year in the way that they do in Biblical times?” Just … how ‘bout you play Russian Roulette instead? And let me pack the chambers, wink-wink, she says with a fistful of bullets.

So the brothers have a change of heart or Benjamin convinces them otherwise and they decide to kill a goat. And the Narrator, who as I mentioned is really the star of the show, has a line where she says “The wretched beast” or “The wretched creature” … whatever is dead and then they spill the blood on the — by the way, there’s a lot, in Jewish — and this is a Jewish show. Jesus Christ Superstar is a goyish show, New Testament. This was AL Dubbs’ (Andrew Lloyd Weber’s) old school Testament show. And it was a testament to how lousy something can be and still please the ear.

Now, where was I in the story? The brothers put blood on the coat. If you’re the prop master of a production of Joseph, here’s what you need: You need two coats. You need one coat that looks great and then you need another one that has blood on it. So they bring that coat to their Dad and the Dad’s devastated ‘cause his favorite son is ostensibly dead. It’s already dark and I’m telling you that growing up I related to everybody in this play. Except for Potiphar.

… (sips) Clinky-clinky, guess what’s back? Mr. Maker’s Mark.

I just related to the idea of being jealous of someone getting special attention, of deserving special attention because of special abilities and then being bullied. I felt this show in a deep place. Which is why my role as Narrator was so — oh, the other thing about that British counselor, she called it “na-rate-or”, which is not how you pronounce that. You ever know someone who will use the British spelling of things or pronounce things British-ly in their American day-to-day lives because at one point they decided to have an affectation? Those people are the most fun.

Act II: Joseph is sold as a slave by his brothers to some pee-pell. He ends up in jail and then he predicts dreams from I think a baker and a butcher … or a tailor and a tinker and a soldier and a spy. Some semblance of the archetypes that were or were not going to fuck-marry-kill Tevye’s daughters. They’re in the prison cell with him, they have dreams, they tell Joseph, Joseph says “Here’s what your dreams mean” but not in a shrink way. People say “Joseph was the first psychiatri—” no, he wasn’t. “I had this dream” and he goes “Oh, that means that there’s gonna be war or famine.” He’s basically doing the equivalent of holding an index card to his head while Ed drunkenly guffawed in times of olde. Those were the good old days.

(sighs) No Steve Higgins was Ed McMahon.

So what happened? Pharaoh said “You’ll be my dream interpreter”, he comes up, prepares them for famine. What happens? Potiphar’s wife tries to fuck him, he says no, she says he tried to rape her … ‘cause that’s what sluts do. Slut-shamed her again! Joan Collins plays her in the movie version with Donny Osmond, I strongly recommend looking that up. And I think the guy who plays Otho from Beetlejuice is in that scene. It’s not bad, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than watching that.

What happens then? Joseph does well for himself. The brothers forgot to plan for the famine or something? And they come and beg for food … to the Pharaoh … is it the Pharaoh? And Joseph’s like “Surprise, it’s me!” and the brothers are like “Oh … boy!” And he’s like “No, it’s cool, I forgive you.” And Jacob is psyched. And to be honest that’s also kind of Joseph looking like a cock because he extended kindness to his brothers while everyone was watching. Mm-hm.

And then he sings a song at the end and it is called “Any Dream Will Do”. There are two songs that Joseph sings: One is “Close Every Door to Me”, which he sings in a prison, and the other is the one I just mentioned. “Close Every Door to Me” was originally going to be the opening theme song to Orange is the New Black but they decided it wasn’t long enough.

There are so many other things I should be talking about besides this … I’m not good at prioritizing. I put this monologue list together right before I recorded it, and … just like a ramshackle — and it should be organized by priority and yet it isn’t, but I have a feeling that Clay Aiken will bring a dimension to a role that will further affect me because he is a redhead. And I know that, especially as a redheaded male it’s easy to feel like you’re getting too much attention, and not the best kind. So I’ll be interested to see what he uses from his personal experience in playing the part of Joseph. In … what production is it, by the way, is it going to be televised? Is Clay Aiken doing it on Broadway, is this going to be on Ovation with Raising McCain, Meghan McCain’s new talk show?

Lotta talk shows. Women get daytime talk shows. Men, as long as they’re white or Arsenio, which I’ll talk about in a second, rule the night. Women need to take back the night in a different way, starting with laughter.

[ragingglesbians]

But I need them!