I walk into the theatre this morning, and our apprentice stage manager goes: "Oh, yeah, Rosie. You might want to give the stage an extra sweep, because the renters last night broke a glass on the stage."

And I think: "Aaagh. This is the second time that's happened."

Then I walk through the main doors into the house, and there's mud on the floor.

And I think: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. Whyyy?"

The renters last night didn't sweep and mop after their show, even though I did an extra big clean for them. (They're a bunch of other theatre people, doing an improv'ed soap opera.)

I put the mud aside and walk into the house proper.

And they haven't cleaned up the seats, either, leaving programs and papers all through the seats.

And this time I actually say it: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh." Along with some fist shaking.

But I clean it up quickly, pull out my broom and mop and start cleaning up the floor.

I'm about halfway through when I remember: "Ohyeah! Our actress needs to be on stage half an hour earlier than usual! I better get her costume."

So I pop to the washer and dryer (which are behind the right hand of a pair of sliding doors; the other side contains a storage closet and the dimmer racks).

I go to slide open the door, and it goes clunk-clunk-CLUNK, and won't open more than a third of the way, completely blocking the washer and half blocking the dryer.

This means somebody has overstuffed the storage closet, not allowing space for the door to slide past.

And I cry out an anguished: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!"

And Karen, our actress, pops out of her dressing room just as I open the storage closet to find all of the renter's sound equipment jamming the way (along with our microphone, which I was looking for).

And I cry: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

And she was all: "Are you okay? I'm sorry, that's our stuff--" She's also the producer for the show that the renters were putting on, so I feel a little bad for letting her hear my frustration.

And I take a breath.

And I smile.

And I say calmly: "It either needs to be put farther in, or it needs to be moved, because I can't get to the washer and dryer."

"No problem, no problem," she says, grabbing the stuff before I can lend a hand. She moves it into the dressing room that the renters use (we bend pretty much over backwards for these guys, which is why it's frustrating when they leave the theatre messy and don't do their dishes, etc).

I press my hands to my eyes. I know I'm being crazy, and it just dawns on me.

I've been craving red, bloody meat.

I've also been craving chocolate.

I've been irrationally angry and screamy.

...I haven't had my period in a while.

PMS!

Wheeeeeeeeee!

So I apologize to Karen for being crazy, and she doesn't seem to mind.

Then when I get home, I relate this entire story to my roommate, Wayne, complete with screaming.

Kaja, his girlfriend and my other roommate, unfortunately had been asleep. (Had been.)

Whoops.

Then I baked a triple decker chocolate cake with chocolate icing and bittersweet chocolate shavings for Ricki's (our stage manager) birthday tomorrow.

And I ate so much chocolate that now I have a bellyache.

Serves me right, but I feel a little less screamy now.

.

Rosie.

Before&After