Cynthia Granville is, I don't know if I can put this strongly enough, a bitch. I know that she's my best friend and my sister and my family and the mother of my muse, but clearly she has only been feigning friendship all of these years and has been waiting all of this time to bring me down to Chinatown.

I got a call from Director Boy, who was unsure about whether one week of rehearsal would be enough, but he wanted to talk to me. I called back and left a message about how I would certainly understand if he would choose not to have me in the show. 'Cause I'm all good and kind that way, see.

Well, I got two messages on my machine, the first from Cynthia, who was calling me to rendezvous about Fran's birthday apple pie, and she mentioned that at her rehearsal they had discussed me, "He said that he didn't know whether there was enough time, and I said that you could certainly do it in the time available, and he said, really?"

The next call on my machine was him, telling me that he was accepting me in the role.

I told Cynthia when I saw her that I was ready to kill her. "What the hell made you tell him that I could do it, why didn't you tell him that I was incompetent? Do you hate me?"

She was noncommittal. I was pissed.

Today's horoscope:
Take a good look at everyone's responsibilities and rewards around the home scene. Reassigning some tasks can avoid resentment.

One year ago today:
"Sometimes I call Anthony a bitch."

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Last Updated Sun 29 October 00:15:09 2000