Snarky, Self-Effacing Blog Title

"Due to a weight imbalance we are delayed and need the following six passengers to deplane before we take off"
"Unless that call light is an emergency, please turn it off now!"
"If there is a doctor on the plane please make yourself known to the flight attendants"

Next year I think we’re staying home for Christmas.  It was nice to see the folks and all, but between the chest cold, which led to the back spasms, which led to a middle-of-the-night pain-induced weeping session, which led to the consumption of a noxious combination of medications, which led to me having to ask Adam to ask a stewardess (I was too embarrassed)  for an airsick bag (which fortunately did not get used, but still–embarrassing to feel the need to ask), which ended in the clusterf***ery that is trying to get your luggage and a cab on December 30 at LaGuardia, I now remember why people hate to travel during the holidays.

Nonetheless, in spite of it all, it was a nice time.  Mom and Dad don’t get out much and don’t have many friends, so it’s good for them to have fresh ears at which to talk endlessly for a few days.  And they feed me.  Very well.  Very, very well.

Ah, well.  That’s what New Year’s resolutions are for, right?

Mom got her first computer ever.  And her first email address.  This should be fun.

Year 30 in the life of Dianna: Deep breath.  Close eyes.  Dive.

I had no idea that any kind of a reviewer had attended our show.

We would have totally comped her ticket if we knew she’d write THIS.

It’s true that you can’t please everyone all the time.  In fact, often, pleasing one person pisses a lot of other people off.  Sometimes, even the person you were aiming to please gets pissed off.  So why bother?

But that’s neither here nor there.

What is here and now is a not-too-shabby-dare-I-say-pretty-darn-good bit of Shakespeare at the Impact Theater.  (see www.tuckaberry.com for details.  You’ve all heard enough about this by now, I’m sure.)

I’m right in the thick of the busiest, most ulcer-inducing month of my life ever, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’ve only had one crying jag so far.  I’ve learned a few things this December, not the least of which has to do with learning that no matter how much I delegate, I am still ultimately responsible for every aspect of every production Tuckaberry puts on and for every new shoot of growth in the company.  Which means that if one branch of it is faltering for any reason, be it a sudden act of God, an unforseen time constraint, or a blameful bloody superflu, I am ultimately responsible for stepping in.  There is no washing my hands of a debacle.  There is no backing out.  There is no room for "I simply can’t–someone else has to do this."   And as the company grows, and each of its exhausted members becomes more and more overextended, I fear burnout.  For myself, for them, for the hardy perennial native to Brookhattan.  It’s no more healthy to try to force a company to grow beyond its root strength than it is to force a bulb to bloom before its time.  This coming year, we’re due for a pruning.  It’s time to focus on growing stronger, not bigger.  Time to produce better, rather than more shows.   Time to nurture this tired company to good health so that we can be around for a long, long time. 

But for the time being, full speed ahead, guns a-blazing, we’ve got two shows, a fundraiser and a spring show to put on.

On a side note, I slept through about 90 percent of ‘Golden Compass.’  From what I did see, the Polar Bears looked more lifelike than Nicole Kidman, and the dialogue was tooth-grittingly bad.  Fortunately, the theater was warm and the seat reclined. 

Seriously, you guys.  It’s a good show.