My phone plays the Other-Father Coraline song whenever a text comes in, which--in my job--makes for a dance party every five minutes.

Also, if anyone wants a paper Coraline or circus mouse, I apparently have such skills in my arsenal now.

In "who knew it would ever happen?" news, I've actually stumbled upon an old, annoying-to-work-with item the theater's technical director *will* let me set on fire. (He always says no to the set pieces, but old speakers are apparently okay.) Of course, since it was always part of the bit that he never said yes, I've never considered where I'd set fire to a piece of theater equipment that had finally ended its time with us.

I don't know what someone who whistles/honks/shouts out something while driving past me at the bus stop expects me to do. Is it just menfolk reasserting themselves as menfolk, or did Jerry Seinfeld have it right and I'm supposed to chase after them?

I've been workshopping (mostly in my brain) a post thing about my love of London (somewhat inspired by Will's multi-post series about his life in theater). The problem with such things, however, is the extended time thinking about London isn't good for my general health as it leads down the rabbit hole of wanting to move there/can't move-still working here/maybe I don't want to stay then/blah blah blah that isn't helpful when you're recovering from a mild illness. (I'm better, btw, though annoyed that I couldn't at least get sick on a day when I could stay home.)

Have I mentioned to anyone that the managing director is trying to convince me that I want to stage manage the New Year's Eve show? Because that was my favorite part of stuck-at-work-sick Monday. (Incidentally, the answer to that was "no, seriously no, please go away before I sneeze on you no.")