Becky India-Saddles

Alright, so being out of practice, you have to give me some leeway on the whole "clever name as title" thing.  

But...I'm BACK ya'll.  I finally have a day off of work and I'm not completely exhausted, so I thought I'd scribble down some thoughts.  Here's what's new with me:

1. Single.

2. Finished an eight-day-in-a-row stretch at the Corporate Coffee Compound for the People (CCCP, for short).

3. I'M IN A SHOW!!!

That's right, folks.  Your beloved unpaid professional auditioner now is a paid professional actor again.  And we all know the difference between being a professional and an amateur: makin' dat money.  Just don't come asking me for any.  It's hard out here for a pimp.

I get to play the role of "Jock" in a Chicago premiere at Raven Theatre, columbinus.  I'll yield that it may not be the feel-good story of the post holiday season, but it's an excellent play and certainly affecting (I just read the thing, I can only imagine how it will feel on its feet).  

The caveat being that the role of "Jock" is, as the high-school archetypal nomenclature would imply, is very athletic.  I've always been a fan/player of sports, but I gotta be up front: I'm not exactly in the shape of my life right now.  I smoke a pack a day, I drink a lot of beer, and I love burgers.  And I have to take my shirt off for this thing.  No nakey-nakey for Mikey-Mikey, but I gotta look good, right?  

I fucking hate running.  Running is the worst thing in the world.  Every few months I'll get a fire under my ass and I'll jog a couple of miles.  When I lived just off of Addison in Wrigleyville, I'd set a goal to run down to Fullerton and back.  Not bad, right?  I'd get to Fullerton and be absolutely exhausted.  Then what am I supposed to do, take the fucking train back?  Oh no.  I've got far too much pride for all that.  So I'd run back.  Thats the problem: running back.  When you get tired from running, you're in the middle of fucking nowhere and you still have to get home somehow.  I never feel like I'm getting anywhere when I'm running.  And fuck treadmills, for that matter.  At least running in town I get to see some pretty homes.  I can watch TV in my own home, thank you very much.

But now I have no choice.  I either have to join a gym or run.  The latter is far cheaper.  

I had a good go of it, though.  One can't survive on a completely sedentary lifestyle forever.  I'll miss you, Mickey-Ds.  I thought this was the year for us and Monopoly to find each other in the night, but we will never know now that I have to move on.  Goodbye...

...

...readers.  I'm done.  

What?  I'm not quitting beer or cigarettes.  The running and the McDonald's are enough for one day.

Lynn Cohn-Pajou or Dr. Finn Gersnum, D.D.S.

When people think of me, generally the first descriptions that come to mind DO NOT include the following:

*Sex Machine

*Contortionist

*Olympic and World 200m Butterfly Record-Holder

*Humanitarian

I did make an attempt recently, mind you, to change one of these things.  And no, I do not have any business relationships with Koreans and my last name is not "Phelps" (I do, however, have extraordinary hip flexibility).  

My boss recently asked me if I wanted to be involved with a "Make Your Mark" event, essentially the corporate coffee version of tax-deductible volunteer work.  I had always gathered that such events involved doing some Habitat for Humanity-type home-building or refurbishing; mainly some kind of honest day's work for a "needy" family or some such organization that helps "needy" families.  While conjuring up images of myself wearing a tool-belt wielding an enormous steel mallet, I heartily agreed to be a part of it.

"Good," she said.  "It's going to be over at the Lincoln Park Zoo."

Oh.

"What kind of...work is it?" I replied.

"I think it's, like, manning an arts and crafts table or something."

Oh.

The next Tuesday I arrived half-an-hour late to the main pavilion at the zoo to find several "partners" from the corporate coffee house a few blocks up the street from mine and two "partners" from my store, along with a few zoo staffers.  There were many pairs of scissors and hole-punchers strewn about a plastic utility table which was, at least, in the shade.  

I tried to make the best of it.  

"So guys, what are we doing today?" I declared with faux enthusiasm.    

One of the zoo people answered: "Oh, are you another person from (name of national coffee chain)?  Great!  We're making jaguar masks!"

Oh.

"Why don't you grab a pair of scissors?"

The picture began to come together: one person was cutting out heavy card-stock kitten faces, while another X-acto knifed the eye and mouth holes, while still another hole-punched the black and white faces and tied on elastic string.  At the far side were Rubbermaid bins filled to the brim with oft-used crayons. 

"We've got to get a good set of these together before the next camp group shows up!"

For the next three-and-a-half hours I sat in the midst of dozens of children and their inexplicably off-work Lincoln Park parents while feverishly slicing generic baby feline masks.  The "jaguar" term was used in loose affiliation with the flippantly declared "South America Day" at the zoo, which did not necessarily accredit the activity (though there was a fairly decent Flamenco band with the according Flamenco dancers to serenade/distract us).  

I think I neglected to say at the beginning that there are two other things that I don't usually hear to describe me: 

*Dr. Spock Protege

*New/Old Money

Or any kind of money, really...except maybe "Dead Money" at the poker table.  

After the last of the tap-tap-tapping from the Flamenco dancers, and the applause from the two-dozen or so in the "crowd," the actually pleasant LPZ employee directed us to tidy up.  She thanked us for our help in preparing for the next day: "South America Day 2: The South Goes North."  

I kept waiting for the "...and go get yourselves a free lunch from the concessions with this voucher!" part of the speech, but that strangely didn't happen.  They didn't even have those awesome animal-shaped fries of my youth...just overpriced pommes frites.  As I walked toward Lincoln Park West and my store (where I was closing that night), I felt as if I were still holding that pair of scissors.  I caressed my right index finger with my right thumb...no feeling in one spot.

It is three days later.  While better, the sensitivity on that portion of my finger is "light" at best.  I'm sure I'd still be aching from swinging a huge piece of metal through a door or something, but at least I'd have been able to SWING A HUGE PIECE OF METAL THROUGH A DOOR.  And, well, maybe a family crying and hugging me, thanking me for my devotion to helping people, and asking me if I wanted to be their swaddled child's godfather.  

Instead, I get a numb finger.  You know what?  Fuck corporate responsibility.

I'm never "helping" anyone again.