T.O.W. The Mumu and the Vodka
Monica: That was my bathing suit in 9th grade.
Chandler: I was wrong, THAT'S what they use to cover Connecticut when it rains.
Ugh.
I only wish I had the vodka. Well, I guess if I’m wishing for things I wish I didn’t have the mumu. Such is life.
I have the mumu.
So, logic dictates I need the vodka. Perhaps in a flask attached to my hip, which I could actually get away with under my costume since it is, indeed, a mumu. A striped and, albeit, belted, mumu. But a mumu all the same. I could fit a whole bottle of Godiva Chocolate Bailey’s under there and have a whole hour between my two vastly-abbreviated appearances on stage to down it in a series of shots with butterscotch chasers.
But let’s back up.
Two years ago, I did a musical called Man of La Mancha. It’s basically about a delusional man and his servant who are thrown in prison and recreate the adventures of the legendary Don Quixote in order to entertain the other prisoners. Various prisoners become characters in his story, which is played out ad nauseum to any poor audience patient enough to sit through it.
My role? Don Quixote’s sharp and cunning (read: manipulative bitch) niece Antonia. The costumer (who shall for the time being remain anonymous, lucky her) decided Antonia would best be suited wearing a voluminous costume made out of what amounted to heavy damask tapestries. Drapes. Fine. I guess it was a period in history where people had no choice but to make their parlor curtains and clothing out of the same material (and I mean let’s face it, so did Scarlett O’Hara, and she's pretty great). It’s the character, no problem. For Christ’s sake, I wore what amounted to a lemon merengue pie in Seussical. Plus the curtains were plum and I look good in plum. Not that wearing inch-thick material did a lot for my ass, but still. Plum. I can work with that.
Then I found out I would be putting on the three-piece curtain ensemble (plus a veil) onstage as I transformed from prisoner to Antonia is roughly 45 seconds. This is when I started to panic. Mind you, I found this out roughly, oh, 3 days before we opened. During a final fitting for the drapes onstage at eleven o’clock on the Tuesday night before we opened, I curtly expressed my concern about changing from one costume to the other, especially since the drapes were rather cumbersome and hard to maneuver.
What I found out (much) later was that my concern about the quick change was taken, by the overly-defensive and costumer and her costumer assistant, as a direct attack on the costume itself (i.e. I hated it, I wouldn’t wear it). Basically a lot of things that never came out of my mouth. End result? I’m a diva who won’t cooperate.
Fast forward two years to last night. Lose the drapes, add a mumu.
Well, not quite yet.
Okay, just fast forward two years when costumer assistant is now director of theissame theatre’s mounting of Thoroughly Modern Millie. I am cut out of contention for the lead ( a singing tap-dancer, HELLO?!?) due to the former-costumer-assistant-now-director’s inaccurate grudge against me for what happened during La Mancha.
You just can’t make this shit up.
Instead, I’m pitied and begrudgingly handed-- no sorry, offered another “principal” role which amounted to not much more than a cameo with precisely 12.5 minutes of stage time. (Miss Flannery the office manager, in case you know the show and/or care)
I won’t go into all the machinations of rehearsals and the unavoidable community theatre hiney-biting, but instead will declare I’ve been the typical model cast member-- singing other character’s songs for promotional events, overlooking it when the director forgets I’m there, watching the leads phone it in. You know, the usual.
And I should mention that throughout the weeks of rehearsal, the costumer (yes, the same one from La Mancha) and her minions came in every week to try costumes on people. Well, all people except for one.
Me.
Not that I wasn’t busy. I had things to do. Eight whole lines to learn, one dance to practice, plus the time it took to perfect my 3-word solo.
I kept getting reasons like “I have to make the stenographer’s costumes first” and “I haven’t chosen the material” and “There’s 103 costumes in this show, and I’ll get to it”. What’s really sad is, I sat there with the proverbial thumb up the proverbial ass and believed her.
Now we’re up to last night: costume parade. It’s already a clusterf*ck of a night anyway, especially with a show of this magnitude. Flapper dresses are flying around, people don’t like the way they look in baby-poop green, the usual stuff. I, however, am basking in my role for the first time: two scenes and one dress a la snooty 1920s office manager.
Wrong.
Make that fanatical singing and dancing villager following that Joseph guy around while he wears his magical coat of many colors.
That’s right.
Enter The Mumu.
Yes, it’s a mumu. A mumu of many colors, ironically enough. A brightly-colored sheet sewn into the general shape of a potato sack dress for a woman nearly twice my size, accentuated with a lovely maroon cloth belt that would have looked lovely on Peter, Paul, or even Judas. And he’d have had plenty of room in there to store his 30 gold pieces or whatever the hell it was.
I had just seen the stenographer’s dresses. Cute little numbers in turquoise and yellow, with sweetheart collars, dropped waists, and flawless pleats.
And then there’s me. In my mumu. My own little private seventh circle of hell, and people are going to pay $18 a pop to see it.
But I take a deep breath and begin the walk of shame from the dressing room to the stage where I will stand on stage and be scrutinized by the director, the Anti-Christ (fine, costumer), and anyone else who happened to be out there and ready for a good laugh.
And I’m not kidding on this one. Every single cast member who passed by me did two things: (1) laughed sympathetically and (2) asked me why I decided to do Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, or perhaps Godspell, instead.
Oh. GOD.
More than one person also told me there was no way in any circle of hell the director would let me appear onstage in the mumu of many colors.
Funny thing though; once the stenogs and I were lined up onstage, all I was told was that my mumu was simply a little “unfinished” and would be “touched up” by next week.
Touched up, my ass.
Doused with gasoline and burnt into biblical clothing compost perhaps.
In a later and more candid discussion with the director, I was told various things such as “You’re not onstage that long” and “Other things are taking priority”, and “It’s hard to find something for you”. Oh, and “This is exactly what we talked about before”- I guess meaning this is why we didn’t give you the lead.
To which my answers were “If I’m not that vital, maybe you don't need me” and “Like what, all other 102 costumes?” and “I might be a curvy size 14 with big boobs, but I’m not a pregnant sea lion”. Oh, and “We never talked about a mumu before”.
But those didn’t go over very well, and I’m not sure what will happen. What I am sure of is that I will not wear the mumu onstage, touched up or not.
Stay tuned for more mumu updates.
Adn bring me some damn vodka.