I’m in a production of “Amadeus” for a local theatre and they have decided to help promote the show by having me and the actress playing Constanze be in a car for the State Fair parade. That morning, we get to the staging area to get ready for the parade. I have my costume, but I didn’t get into it at home, not wanting to wear it more than I have to or drive in an eighteenth-century outfit of brocade. They don’t really have any sort of costume changing area, just the bathroom of one of the stores for which we are using the parking lot.

So, having met up with Constanze and gathered my things, I head off to the bathroom… only to realize I have forgotten part of the costume. I head back, get it, and go off to the bathroom again… only to realize I have forgotten yet another part of the costume. I go back to get it. I tell Constanze as I pass her to go back to my car:

Me: “I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached.”

She laughs a bit since she, too, has a huge number of pieces for her costume, but she has managed to remember everything. Since her car was closer to the bathroom, she has agreed to let me store my street clothes, wig head, etc. in her car.

The parade goes by with me doing my Mozart laugh for a few miles and we get back to the staging area. I get changed back into my regular clothes, tell Stanzi that I’ll see her that evening for the show, and start toward my car with all of my clothes.

Then, I hear her calling me.

Constanze: “[MY NAME]! YOU FORGOT YOUR HEAD!”

I turn around to see her holding up my wig head.

Me: “IT WASN’T ATTACHED!”

One summer, I am the director and choreographer for half of a musical revue. Our part is full of comic opera, so it includes several pre-teens. They are fun to work with onstage but more than a little entitled offstage.

Dress rehearsal day arrives and I set my things in the room reserved for my cast. After going to pick up a prop for one of the songs, I come back to find one of the preteens zipping up my purse.

Me: “What are you doing with my bag?”

Preteen: “I was looking for my phone.”

She’s holding her phone in one hand and has the other hand in her pocket.

Me: “It wasn’t in my bag. What else did you find?”

She pulls out a $300 iPod.

Me: “I worked hard for the money to buy that and bought it last week. Put it back and don’t ever touch my things again.”

Preteen: *Sulking* “Well, it’s not like you really wanted it.”

She and her sisters were three of the kids of a successful restaurateur and had their own iPods already. They were not invited back.

In high school, I’m in a musical that takes place in New York around the turn of the twentieth century. One of our musical numbers is performed by a group of girls who are referred to in the script as “Bowery Beauties.” We’re at rehearsal, but we’re also on lunch break, and one of our directors is darting around to different tables.

He comes to our table, which is completely composed of girls.

Director: “Have you seen any Beauties around here?”

We connect the dots pretty quickly and figure out that he’s asking for the actresses, so we help him as best we can. He thanks us and leaves.

A minute later, he comes back to our table with an apology, reassuring us that we are all beauties and he shouldn’t have phrased it that way. I had a lot of not-so-great experiences in that theater, but that was one thing I’ll always remember in a positive light.

I’m a techie, travelling with a small play to be performed at a Womens’ Playwriting conference in Galway. The lighting designer and I go to check out the performance space that the play will be performed in.

We enter at the back of the auditorium and walk the tiered steps down toward the stage. The lighting tech is asking his assistant to adjust a light over the seating, but before the assistant can get there, the lighting designer — 6’5″ — just reaches up and makes the adjustment; he can reach it easily.

The lighting tech, who’s maybe 5’7″ or so, looks at the lighting designer and then down at his own legs, and shouts, “GROW, d*** ye!”

I’m in the high school drama production. I’m waiting quietly in a corner for it to begin when a little girl approaches me. It’s normal for there to be kids backstage because our show requires full families. I’m playing a nurse in the show.

Little Girl: “Hey, excuse me. Can I ask you something?”

Me: “Oh, sure. What is it?”

Little Girl: “Aren’t you a little pale to be a nurse?”

I’m really, really pale and my foundation is almost the lightest shade, but people don’t usually comment on it.

Me: “Umm…”

Little Girl: “You look like a ghost or kinda like you’re sick.”

She leaves.

Me: “Thanks.”

I later found out that this was the daughter of my music teacher and one of the directors of our show. Apparently, I was looking a little too pale, because the women who were in charge of the makeup tracked me down before the next show, bronzer in hand.