I am in a foul mood, owing to some standard-issue marital miscommunications that left my gun-toting husband driving off to have lunch without me, and the fact that my never-to-be-used reproductive system is getting surly on my ass. Or near my ass.
Yesterday I took an improv class that should have been billed as this:
SUCK-O-VISION(TM)! with Famous Improviser Guy!
You suck! Come get a detailed report on just how you suck based on a minimal demonstration of your skills. You'll get a lengthy lecture consisting of improv maxims you've heard numerous times before combined with a laundry list of Better Choices You Should Have Made, but didn't because you suck. This class will be free of exercises or simple opportunities to right your wrongs, because you suck. You will leave the class either never wanting to do improv again or wanting to beat the shit out of something.
I was permitted 1.5 scenes that left me feeling like the suckiest player this side of Derek and Willy, and I was so roiled that everyone else except for me and two other women (did somebody just trip my Sexist-O-Meter? It's sensitive!) got to do 4+ scenes and we were given 10 minutes to do 1.5 scenes and then stopped for an all-important pee break that I spent the second half of the class in a quiet, personal rage. I felt thrown back to that moment a decade earlier where I had to explain to a room full of radio station hipsters why I didn't think Miranda July's incomprehensible performance art twaddle was the come-in-your-pants lifetime event that everyone was making it out to be, knowing that I would be putting my political ass on the line if I were to actually say something to this guy along the lines of "you did nothing today except take my money and destroy my confidence."
Okay, he took Bob's money, but Bob owed me for a Costco booze run, so it all evened out.
The Geegsters did a show that was pretty good considering we never rehearsed the format beforehand and put J-Rat into his first speaking role. It had some technical hinkiness, but I just love playing with my ladies (and honorary ladies) so much that we could have gone up there and farted and it would have been a good time.