I have a man's head between my legs for about seven minutes every night.

Fourteen minutes on Saturdays.

To my mother who's just had a heart attack: please keep reading. No, this has not turned into one of THOSE sorts of blogs.

I shall explain:

I am in a show. In said show I play a ghost.

Some designer-like person decided that said ghost in said show should be terribly, terribly tall. I'm not exactly certain why ghosts would be taller than normal people but that is not up to actors to make such vital decisions.

It is up to actors to make other vital decisions like, "Should I part my hair on the right or the left today?" or "Is seven beers too many or exactly the right amount to drink?" or even, "Should I put my slippers in the microwave?" Yes yes. They don't trust the actors with too many important decisions for reasons I cannot begin to understand.

In any case, I am not tall. Not even a litle bit. I bet lots of people in my life have bald spots on the tops of their heads and I don't even know it. That's how not-tall I am.

So to make me tall, aforementioned designer built me a very-large-contraption. When I stand on the very-large-contraption, I am nearly ten feet tall. Very tall indeed. I could see all the bald spots in the world from such a vantage point.

In order to move the very-large-contraption, I have a certain man hiding under my very-large-dress. He stands between my legs and moves me around the stage.

Now you understand.

So here's the point I've been trying to get to in all of this between-the-legs-ness:

A thing that you do NOT want to hear coming from between your legs as you enter the stage on opening night is this:

"Er, Jill. I can't see ANYTHING in here. So if we get close to the edge of the stage, would you mind squeezing my head with your thighs?"

Sigh....

THE TIME I BLEW UP MY SLIPPERS IN THE MICROWAVE
A "Look-At-Me-Giving-Away-The-Ending-In-The-Title-Like-I-Always-Do" story

Slippers are an odd gift.

Most people don't wear slippers. And if a person is of the slipper-wearing genus, he or she surely already owns slippers. And if he does own slippers, they probably won't wear out for a really long time because he's not even wearing them outside, assuming proper slipper ettiquette. If you are the sort of person who wears slippers outside, you are probably also the sort of person who picks up your children from school in a bathrobe and curlers and the normal rules of civilized society do not apply to you.

There.

A slipper summary. A slipper syllabus. Passed out on the first day of Footwear 101.

Oh, but these were special slippers.

Magical, possibly.

These were, well, microwavable slippers. Here's how they work:

You (and by "you", I mean "me") put them in the microwave diligently and, when you put them on, your feetsies are toasty warm. Yes, I just said feetsies. I liked it.

A brilliant notion, microwavable slippers. Much better than their predecessor, microwavable panties, which made you have toasty lady-parts (ok, I made that part up.)

Now we all know the sort of person who doesn't read the directions before microwaving her slippers. Probably the same sort of person who sleeps in a batmobile bed and turns men gay as if by magic.

I am that sort of person.

I scoff at directions.

But here is the thing I have learned about directions: Sometimes they are the very exact thing that stop you from finding little exploded slipper pieces in your microwave (and by "your microwave," I mean, "my microwave," and by "slipper pieces," I mean "yuck.")

You see, after some earnest button-pushing, I left the slipper-microwave-extravaganza to play a board game (possibly Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit. Definitely not Battleship.)

I only left for two minutes.

Turns out two minutes is the exact amount of time it takes to blow up the slippers in your microwave.

I guess I'm not a slipper-wearing person anymore.

the end.