An Open Letter to a Producer

I am not going to name your organization here because I don't want to be accused of libel, even though what I write here is true. You don't pay a living wage, or anything approaching it. Still, you expect your employees to work extraordinarily hard in dangerous conditions to make your shows a success. When is the last time your space got a visit from the fire marshal? I ask because one of the stagehands got a nasty shock when she tried to plug something into the electrical outlet backstage that was just dangling out of the wall. Cap that shit off or fix it before someone is seriously injured.
We had a standard contract that you would pay half of my fee on opening night and the other half on closing. I kept up my end of that agreement, but on closing night, the production manager didn't have checks for the crew. Sure, the actors, who have the legal muscle of Equity behind them, were all paid on time, but the crew got lame excuses about a printer in the office being out of toner. I guess the accountant's check writing hand was broken, too.
Isn't it bad enough that you paid members of your run crew $200 total for a five week run? That's not even minimum wage. Then you had the audacity to take your time paying them after they've performed the work. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for treating fellow artists this way. Hell, for treating fellow human beings this way. When I mentioned that US Labor Law requires employers to pay their employees on the date agreed upon, your production manager told me that some people in town don't even pay. I know. One of my exes got an Equity agreement yanked from a company that stiffed him $700. That's not a threat. You eventually sent me a check with both my first and last names misspelled. Thanks for that laugh.
The saddest part of this is that I had a wonderful time working on your show, with really great people. It's just that asshole in the office who handles payroll that completely soured me on your company. I wish you all the luck you deserve in finding qualified people willing to work under these conditions, because I certainly will never work for your company again.

What Would Laura Ingalls Wilder Do? Drink Some Wine and Sew Some More.

I stayed up until 4 am last night sewing xmess presents. I realized today that the sound of the machine, so comforting to me, probably irritated the neighbors. Then I though about how their child has endless screaming tantrums and decided not to feel guilty.
In the past twenty-four hours, my sewing machine has:

• Refused to work. The thread wouldn't catch. I disassembled it, cleaned its nooks and crannies, swapped bobbins, everything. Turns out that the problem was a little burr on the spool of thread I was using that prevented the thread from feeding. 
• Broken two needles. This was my fault. I recently fell in love with a quarter inch foot that is apparently NOT for zigzag. My previous favorite utility foot is, so it didn't occur to me that the slimmer foot would be a problem. Thank god I had a whole pack of needles, but I could definitely have done without catching part of a needle in my hand.
• Burned through a surprising amount of bobbin thread. I could probably wind a bobbin in my sleep now. Maybe I did last night.
• Installed many a zipper (with my guidance). The new fave quarter inch foot is great for zippers, so I don't have to swap feet to put them in. Zippers are now my bitch.

Even though the sewing has been a little fiddly, it has been so much quicker than knitting presents like I usually do. I've decided that most of my family aren't knitworthy. I got tired of seeing the presents that took me hours to make get casually tossed on the pile. The work was not appreciated.

Mad Men has fueled my holiday craft marathons in the past (or one year, shamefully, Gossip Girl), but this year I'm working my way through all of the episodes of Saving Grace on Netflix. Maybe I needed a badass Holly Hunter fix and didn't know it. I've also got the new Jane Eyre adaptation out from the library, but that seems like something that requires a little more attention. 

In other news, my cell phone broke. It still works, after a fashion, but the scroll pad refuses to scroll. I can't check my email, text messages, use the internet, turn my ringer back on, or about a dozen other things without it. All those reasons I want a smartphone now don't work. So, if I've missed a call from you in the past few days, I apologize. I'll call you when I get my new phone tomorrow. I decided to abandon the Blackberry (8 track of the 2000s) for an iphone. Yes, I've mocked them in the past. Yes, I tease one of my friends for his near-obsessive love of his iphone. I just want a smartphone that works, has no scroll button to break (which killed my last two phones), and doesn't have a squint-inducingly tiny screen. That leaves android phones and the iphone. The tech support guy who remotely reprogrammed my Blackberry when its data service went out told me that iphones generate the fewest number of problem tickets of any phones on my carrier. What else do you need to know? My new phone is in the FedEx depot across the street from my apartment, which has me as antsy as a kid waiting for Christmas. I wish I could just go get it, but I'll have to wait for them to deliver it tomorrow. Sometimes the tracking page is not your friend.

Knowing that when light is gone,
   Love remains for shining.


Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I had an idea for an art piece made out of the disposable gowns I have to wear when I visit my grandmother in the hospital. I would shred them and use the resulting strips to weave a giant piece of fabric, possibly incorporating medical paperwork. Then I realized that I have to wear those gowns to prevent transmission of infectious disease. So, I'd have to use a lot of Lysol on it, or post a warning that no one with a compromised immune system could be in a gallery with it. I would also need a loom. Back to the drawing board.

Some days, I think that I should have just stayed in bed.
Today, I decided to take the El into the city to see my grandmother, who is still in the hospital. I could have driven, but I ran out of parking passes for the garage and didn't feel like paying their exorbitant rates. Mistake. I had to run to catch the train, but might as well have taken my time. Two stations later, the train went out of service due to a fire at the Logan Square station. The CTA's answer? Provide a shuttle to the Logan Square station. At the California station, the CTA peeps said that platforms would be headed towards the loop. Except, when the train showed up, it was headed to O'Hare and the conductor kept yelling at passengers who were just trying to ask where the train was headed. After plenty of shivering on the platform in the freezing rain, a southbound train finally arrived. It was packed. Despite all the standees, there was a man sitting Indian style across two of the seats. When an older woman admonished him for taking up two seats when so many people had to stand, he just stretched his legs out across the second seat. I hate everybody.
My grandmother's nurse proudly told me that she's doing much better. She stood up today, briefly, which is not a big deal for most of us, but incredibly hard when you've been bedridden for a month. Her appetite hasn't improved, though, which is incredibly frustrating. She has to get her strength up to get out of the hospital and that requires eating. Last time, I took her pad thai. This time, I made her rice pudding, which I normally only make for xmas. The nurses were very encouraging, saying that she needs all the extra nutrition she can get. Well, she only ate two bites. I suggested. I cajoled. I hovered and handed her things. She even told me that I am the only member of the family more stubborn that she (a dubious achievement that I attribute to my Norwegian ancestors). I don't know what to do, other than keeping at it. As hard and frustrating as it is for me, I am sure that it is worse for her.