Broadway Baby I ain't

I awoke yesterday morning at 5:36am with a jolt. The kind of jolt that makes you sit upright, and if you were on a bottom bunk, would surely leave you a shinny goose-egg reminder. The cause of my awakening so much earlier than my 7:15am alarm clock, was a dream, or more aptly, being "stuck in a broadway nightmare" (to quote Willow from BtVS).
Lately I have been surrounding myself even more with people in the field of theatrics, and no I'm not talking about the "drama queen" within. A good portion of my friendships in high school and college involved theater majors. I am by no means a theater person myself though. My most apt description for myself is somewhere along the lines of "theater groupie" - only without the worship part. I know terminology, can work out blocking, can assess camera angles, and analyze director choices. I can tell you if a period piece has the right costumes and set design, and I can swap some of the best stories of stage antics with seasoned vets of the playwrights playground. (ask me about the vodka switched for prop water in Bye Bye Birdie)
However, I am in no shape to be an actress, musician, or in general, under those bright lights. The aforementioned dream, and its corresponding real life influences should prove just that.

Back in undergrad I used to have an anxiety/panic attack nightmare akin to many people who say they dream they've gone to class naked. In my version, I take an art history test where I know all of the images, but I have to formulate my comparison answers in the Russian language, and the questions are all in Italian. Two languages I don't speak/read/write in. Inevitably I scribble something illegeable to my dream-self and wake up frustrated and shaken.

In this new formulation of this same anxiety driven dreamscape, it began with me auditioning for a play. (This, in real life stems from the recent auditions of friends and roommate for City Circle Shorts - and in real life nothing would possess me to try out for a play unless it was upon penalty of death or a failing grade.)
I get the part. (In real life I'd go, "eekk" ) The part is to be the second of two detectives in a film noir stage piece. (Indeed in real life the roommate's role is in a film noir stage piece) I show up for the first day of reheresal and discover that everyone else already knows their lines. (in real life I helped roomie to learn hers) I am appalled to notice that the other female characters are all wearing really short skirts, and claim that these are the outfits we will be wearing on stage (roomie and i watched an episode of Gossip Girl - yay Kristen Bell - and the characters wear really short skirts) I tried to explain that my character, as the detective who investigates the death of the first detective and femme fatale, would wear pants, not a short skirt. obviously all that leaning over bodies and dusting for fingerprints couldn't take place in a skirt, and I asked if I could wear my gray power suit instead. (I actually do own a gray power suit) The director said no, and I threatened to quit. (There's a running joke among the theater folks about quiting, and how there is no quiting in theater...(ala League of their Own and crying) Anyways, I then overhear the director telling other cast members that I'm the $$$ behind the production and that is the only reason I'm in the show. (In real life this relates both to the roomie and the funding for the movie she's in, and also, ala Shakespeare in Love you must have a bit part for the money) Well, I inform the director that I've got no need to actually be in the show, I'm perfectly happy to be in the audience, and the director decides to expand my part instead, and I am now the "singing film noir second detective" Oh yes, he's added a musical number for me. (In real life I believe this part came from seeing a fantastic version of Little Shop of Horrors at Cornell college on Sunday, which always makes me wish I could sing solos and actually act without being terrified to do so) At this point, I open my mouth to object, and suddenly I'm singing some over-the-top ditty wrought with innuendo and discussion of DNA.
The End. Susan awakes up, and a little while later tells roommate about said dream, thus it gets journaled in the blog.