She Works Hard for the Money: Part One

I write in the wake of Calamity Jane, one of the best shows I have ever been lucky enough to be part of. I think it's muscled in to my All Time Top Five, which is getting a bit crowded to say the least. The music was superlative, as any orchestra led by X is bound to be. (Biased? Me?) The singing matched it, with stunning performances from all the principals, as well as remarkable strength from the chorus, even the chaps! I got to do lots of dancing and interacting with a huge variety of the cast. It was so much fun.

During one performance, I had the chance to do some on-stage contemplation just before the finale, when I was standing behind the blacks, waiting for the preceding scene to cease. I knew that in a few seconds the cloth would be pulled back and there would be nothing between me and the audience. The second my cover disappeared I would have to smile and sing and dance and perform. My face was so close to the curtain that my nose was touching it. All I could see was black, but I could sense my fellow chorus members about me, and could hear the band changing to the relevant number. It might sound terrifying, but not to me. I felt completely comfortable, not even a bit nervous. Being in musical shows is something that I relish. They fill many needs that my life is lacking -  closeness, teamwork, hugs, laughter and performing. I am totally at home on a stage, especially the one at the Armstrong Hall.

Being at home, stage left...

...stage right...

...and downstage centre. 

The problem is that you give yourself entirely to the thing and it takes over your life for a couple of weeks. When it goes, it's like someone pulling a carpet from under your trotters. So while I love show week, I dread its end. This time, the usual Saturday night plunge into misery was cushioned by the tablets and I felt it. A sort of comfortable numbness surrounded me, making the inter-show void a doddle to plummet through. But there is only so much that 150mg of sertraline can do, and I was therefore unprepared for the tsunami of self-loathing and jealousy that plopped on top of me in the wee small hours of Sunday.

Basically - and stop me if you've heard this before.... What? You have? And you're fed up with it? Me too.

Basically, I hate the way I look, the size of my body yada yada, which I am much more aware of having shared a dressing room with thirty other folk. I got increasingly jealous throughout the aftershow party, looking at the pretty "youngsters" standing in a circle and laughing. They don't exclude me - I exclude myself because I decide that I don't fit. I was incredibly impressed with the leading lady, and not a bit jealous of her. I could never have done what she did - a whole week of shows and not a single problem with her voice or her body, or her attitude. She was exemplary and I want to remember that and use her as an inspiration for my future endeavours. With no outlet for jealousy, this became yet more self-hatred: Why couldn't I do that? What is wrong with me that I would worry about everything? Why am I so uncomfortable in my saggy, aging skin that I wish I could be more like someone else?

One of the most perfectly-formed of The Crowd did approach me afterwards and slurred if I wanted to go on to the pub they were all going onto later. (I don't mean that bitchily! She is perfectly formed, in every possible way, and another remarkable woman.) It was a genuine invitation and one which I would have lapped up if I hadn't been so tired. And my feet hadn't been throbbing. And I hadn't been so ridiculously sober. I am increasingly of the opinion that I should start drinking again. It might have helped me relax when introduced to a gorgeous lad a few minutes later. Oh, he was tastiness personified, single too... but only twenty. I felt ridiculous flirting with him.  When a female fellow chorus member joined us (older than me, but way more, er, loaded), she was sucked into the chat and it was like I had evaporated into a mist. I slipped away, unnoticed. I can't do competition.

There's a - hmm, what is the collective noun for a large number of theatrical ladies in their 20s/early 30s? I'm going with 'abundance' for now as I don't want to be uncivil. If I was, it would arise from personal bitterness and nothing else, as they're all really lovely and incredibly talented. I can't complain about that. But I also can't compete. I feel like there's a chasm between me and them, getting wider all the time. When a female role comes up that I might have gone for in the past, there's a queue, and I'm somewhere near the back of it. Auditions for the pantomime will be soon upon us. I wonder if I can lean on the Sertraline to get me through those too? 

Sadly this black mood accompanied me to my friends' house where I was to stay the night. We sat up a bit and I mainlined crisps and monologued, further resenting myself for doing both. I am so boring! I talk about the same stuff, over and over.  I snuck out the next morning as I didn't want to bore them any more than I already had done.

The same goes for you, so invoking my inner Python (oo that does sound like fun...), here's something completely different:  

Back in September, my mum came all the way from Margate to help me with my stall at the Food Fair. She was invaluable, but at the same time managed to get under my feet in the way that only mums can do. (She is very little, so it's easier for her! But she is also very, very sweet so I hold nothing against her.) While I was busy serving customers, she was trotting around the rest of the fair, spending her money as quickly as I was making mine. She bounced back to me clutching a fistful of raffle tickets. Apparently they were for a draw to choose someone to switch on the Thornbury Christmas Lights at the ceremony in November. Having seen an opportunity to promote my business, she'd purchased a daft amount. I can't write about her doing this without getting a lump in my throat. As I said, she's very sweet.

Mamma being invaluable. 

Anyhow, I had to fill in my name and contact details on each ticket, and at that point in time it was not convenient! I was trying to sell my wares and make eye contact with potential biscuit-buyers etc. But would she leave it alone? Would she accept 'in a minute' as an answer? NO. To appease her, (polite way of saying "shut her up") I scrawled name and email on all the scraps and gave them back. She bounded off up the street to hand them in. It was done. I felt a bit sad that she'd spent so much money on such a futile cause. I don't see myself as one of life's winners. I hate to see the hope that she carries in her heart crushed. A few weeks later she asked if I'd heard anything and I put bright tones in my voice, saying "not yet" when I really meant "of course not."

Last week I was exiting the hall after our first dress rehearsal for Calam, feeling very low and exhausted. It was late. Apart from everything else, Mamma, along with my bro and a sis had all gone to visit my Uncle in Czech and I hadn't been able to join them, what with it being show week and me being broke. Automatically I scanned my phone, and there was an email from some strange woman. I clicked on it and my evening took a turn for the bizarre.

I'd only gone and won the flippin' draw!

Yes, I - (along with the manager of Bristol Old Vic, but who is he to such a local star???!!) - I will be switching Thornbury's Christmas lights on this year!!! I also get an article and picture in the local newspaper at some point before the event. Drug-induced numbness snatched away the tears that I wanted to spill. (It doesn't discriminate between those of happiness and the other kind.)

There was only one thought in my mind - thank goodness Mamma's gesture had not been in vain. I managed a call to Eastern Europe, but it being nearly midnight and her being concerned about cost, it consisted of hurried whispering, ending all too soon - kind of an anti-climax! Of course she was thrilled really, as I found out when they got back to Blighty, and she'll be making a special trip to "laugh at me pressing the button", which I will be doing on Tuesday November 17th. Oh, Mamma.

All the above has taken my attention away from another "pressing" matter, and it is this that I wanted to address. Not loneliness or bonce health, simply my work/money situation. (Hence the blog title, do you see?)

As mentioned previously (Only the Lonely, second half) I am low on cash because I am low on work. If I tell folk this, the response I often get is:

"Have you considered getting a job?"

*sigh*

Here's the deal: I have had what might be described as jobs in the past. They've all ended badly. My self-employed status is one that I am very happy with, and I won't be changing it. I don't know why I struggle with Dolly Parton hours - having to be in A Place at A Time with A Boss watching my every move and jumping on my back when I do anything they don't want me to. Many folk can handle it, but not me. Nor my parents, come to think of it: Dad's just winding down his forty-year French polishing business and Mamma is a skilled seamstress. Even my employed siblings are freelance/agency, thus giving them a little more control over what they do. So this is another difference between me and Most People, which most people don't understand.

Here's a brief précis of my employment history, 18-30: 

Scientific research on two placements during my degree. 

Me, not orgasming (1996)

Did it 'cos I had to, but never could achieve the orgasmic thrill that my fellow students got from attending seminars and reading journals. Was relieved when both sets of six months came to an end. Turns out it wasn't what I wanted to do after all, and that maybe the four years studying biochemistry were a bit wasted. Or were they, as I became:

Secondary Science Teacher, full-time. Loved it to begin with - it was my dream career. 

Tut tut tut, and where were your safety specs Miss?

Dream lab, dream career. (1999)

Form EL all point to where they think Miss's marbles have gone

I loved science and I wanted everyone to feel the same. I communicate well and the idea of being able to inspire kids was wonderful. What went wrong? Reality. Admin and politics got in the way, discipline decreased and colleagues' support waned. I lasted three years inc time off to have breakdown, which didn't quite finish me, until:

Secondary Teacher, supply. Nuff said? Lasted... I don't remember. It was horrible. I obviously didn't think that my previous educational stint had done enough damage to my mental health and wanted to see the job finished properly. With breakdown in full effect, I spent a little while not working at all. Eventually (and reluctantly) I claimed sick benefit, or whatever it was called then. Within my sixteen hours permitted work I tried:

Care Home Events Co-Ordinator, part-time. Struggled through care home inmates eating the paint and moaning about my singing. Final kick in the head was a colleague's complaint. Was in no mental state to stand up for myself. Quit and fell apart. Rallied for:

Receptionist at a Paediatric Ward, part-time - was OK but fell foul of politics, of colleagues not wanting to take on board my suggestions. Quit after a couple of months, much to the other two receptionists' (who happened to be twin sisters) delight. Rallied for:

First Aid Trainer. Not quite full-time, but more hours as I was beginning to recover. Again lots of fun, but soon got dull as it was exactly the same thing, week in, week out. Quit after five months. Wanted to be a writer. Found this:

Sub-Editor/Puzzle Compiler, full-time. Sadly heavier on the editing than the compiling, which was basically marking but without the red pen. Got fed up with the commute into town, the restriction on my freedom, the paltry wage, and some tosser in the office who kept the air conditioning to what he liked and didn't care that I spent my working hours with nipples I could have hung coats on. Quit after four months.

...leading my then boyfriend to say that I never stuck at anything. He hated his job but still dragged himself to it every weekday. Why should I be so special? Find something and stick to it, no matter how miserable it makes you, said he. But how can you stick to it? I never could.

I've also done a stint with a catering agency - a very, very short stint; I've done a lot of home tuition - science and maths - but even just an hour being trapped (often in my own home) was too much for me. I've also worked behind the till at several shops. That's not bad - interaction with the public can be nice, and if you're busy enough, you don't notice the time. I have started volunteering at a charity shop in Dursley for various reasons, (see next blog entry for details) but not as a career.

All of this makes me shudder in memory. I wouldn't go back to any of it. Leave me to work under my own steam and with no colleagues. Don't bore me and don't trap me, and I will work and work until my fingers fall off.

So in conclusion m'lud, it ain't a job that I need, it's work. Speaking of which, I'm pausing here to get on with some... back later. 

What does Lizzie-of-all-trades do for money and do you need her to do it for you? Will she be stepping into Aladdin's fishnets next February or are there bigger tights to fill?  All will be revealed in the next chunky chunk... and sooner than you think!