Cast of Characters

My Girlfriend - (Curious about her name? I am. Referring to one’s live-in partner as “You there!’ doesn’t foster the degree of intimacy I was led to believe it might.)

Phoebe - (My Girlfriend’s ex/ just another white girl with dreads. She sure keeps the old creative Jews flowing.

Supervising Writer’s Note: She means juices.

Me: Wow! That makes a whole lot more sense.)

Me - (I’m the magnetic one on the far left with the perfectly shaped eyebrows. I don’t pluck them or anything; they’re just naturally flawless.)

Linda - (Have I mentioned that even though we’re the same height I always think she’s really tall? Also she’s polygamous as the day is long.)

Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend - (She and I are currently getting along with surprising ease. Thankfully Phoebe provides my daily portion-controlled serving of shock and controversy. Without her I’d be starved for self-righteous disgust; I’d be trolling the Internet at two o’clock in the morning downloading Two Girls, One Cup.)

Tanya - (Phoebe’s Best Friend/Host at My Girlfriend’s restaurant.)

Clueless Woman Who Can’t Figure out Where the Line Starts at Starbucks and Also Happens to be Wearing High-Heeled Sandals in the Dead of Winter - (Okay, she’s not what you’d call integral, but she really got my goat.)

My Goat - Willem Nicholas Weisberg the Third - (He’s seen me at my worst, still he loves me unconditionally. The times we’ve had together, Billy and I: we’ve scaled mountains; we’ve foiled the troll that lives under the bridge down yonder. When he’s especially good I make him my signature tin can stew for supper (the secret is the Kleenex I throw in for texture). We planned on a June wedding. Then that damn woman came along…

Supervising Writer’s Note: Our columnist’s apparent endorsement of bestiality does not reflect the views of the website as a whole. Also-

Me: The heart wants what it wants.

Supervising Writer: That didn’t justify Woody Allen’s actions and it doesn’t justify yours.  In an unrelated note, some clarification is also in order. The troll under the bridge she is referencing is from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, a Grimm Bothers Faery tale. 

Me: That’s a completely obvious allusion.

Supervising Writer: Some people might be confused.

Me: If I spent time worrying about every last reader understanding every last joke, I’d never say anything meaningful. Besides, I trust my audience to understand me.

Supervising Writer: Yes, that worked so well for you in the past. You’re still getting threatening mail from the Skokie women’s shelter. Not to mention the monthly newsletter from DAMIT (Domestic Abuse Monthly Informational Tract).

Me: I wonder how many people signed me up for that. I get like 17 copies a month. Soon I won’t be able to fit them in my recycling bin. Then I’ll have to answer to RANT (Recycle Andersonville- Now, Today!), and you know how seriously they take themselves.

Supervising Writer: Recycling is no joke.

Me: Apparently nothing is. Can we get back to the play here?

Supervising Writer: Play? Ahem, right, quit using this as a forum to work through your unresolved issues! We have a column to generate!

Me: You started it!

Supervising Writer: No back talk. Who’s the one in charge here?

Editor: That would be me. I’ve put up with enough digressions from both of you. Now, Get. To. Work.

Supervising Writer: Yes, yes of course, Kari.

Editor: I don’t recall giving you permission to address me by name.

Supervising Writer: Terribly sorry. Won’t happen again.

Me: Yeah, our bad.

Editor: Get on with it then.)

Scene 1

The Second Gayest Starbucks in Chicago. (Me hangs out here daily, honing her ability to obtain maximum product for minimum cost.)

Cell Phone: “I went to the doctor/I went to the Mountain/ I looked to the children/ I drank from the fountain…” (Every single lesbian in the store fumbles for her phone.)

Me: Got it, it’s mine. (Lesbians return to what they were doing. Note to the director: this can be anything from sipping lattes to light breast play) Hello?

(My Girlfriend appears wearing a white beater and diesel jeans. A leather jacket is slung over her shoulder. Her hair is all falling-in-her-face-messy like it gets when she fucks me - wait, I’m having trouble concentrating. Plus, she doesn’t actually dress that way for work, and I want this play to be organic; realism is my form, man. Excuse me; the costume designer wants to talk to me. What’s that Diane? Yeah, the actress playing me needs a D-cup bra. And the pants? Size zero of course. Sorry about that. Where was I? Realism, right, I’m all about accuracy here. My Girlfriend stands in front of a chef line holding a phone.)

My Girlfriend: You’ll never guess what just happened! I just got the craziest phone call!

 (Phoebe appears, possibly from underneath a house in Kansas. She is surrounded by used Kleenex and clutches her cell phone. I’m not sure what she’s wearing, but it looks terrible on her. Realism, people.)

My Girlfriend: Thank you for calling Snazzy West Loop restaurant, this is My Girlfriend, how can I help you?

Phoebe: (Sniffle) Just…give me a minute. God, this is hard. (Histrionic pause) I took two tests this morning and (Long insufferably melodramatic pause) they both came out positive.

(My Girlfriend is silent.)

Me: Why were you silent?

My Girlfriend: I was calculating.

Me: Calculating what?

My Girlfriend: When I was last tested for HIV.

Me: HIV? But-

My Girlfriend: So my mind is racing, I’m scared to death, my life is flashing before my eyes-- I’ve eaten a lot of pie in my life, you know that? Anyway, I’m starting to really panic when it hits me.

Me: What?

My Girlfriend: You can’t take two positive HIV tests in the morning. So my brain’s clicking away, all the pistons are thrusting, I’m a well-oiled machine-

Me: Mmm…oily thrusting pistons…

My Girlfriend: What?

Me: Nothing.

My Girlfriend: So, there’s been a full thirty seconds of silence at this point, I haven’t said a word. The first thing I say is-Whooaaah! (Phoebe sobs and blows her nose on one of her dreadlocks.)

Me: (Feigning compassion) That must have been a shock. Were you very upset?

My Girlfriend: Are you kidding? I was ecstatic! For a full thirty seconds I thought I had AIDS!

Phoebe: The reason I’m calling is, I have to get rid of my cats, and I need to find someone to give them to. (Lights up on Linda. She is on the phone in a cubicle surrounded by papers. Linda’s job is to IM with me, trade comments with me on Myspace, and talk to me on the phone. Occasionally she also steals extra fine tip Pilot pens for me and sends my faxes. For some reason the Illinois Network of Feminist Ventures pays her $30,000 a year to do this.)

Linda: I don’t understand why Phoebe had to get rid of her cats?

Me: Hold on a second, I’ve figured out how to get a whole new drink for just fifty-five cents. (To offstage Barista) I’d like a refill with decaf and one pump of sugar free gingerbread syrup. (To Linda) You know how if a pregnant woman stood for hours leaning directly over a cat box in an unventilated room, the ammonia in the cat urine could theoretically have a slight chance of affecting her fetus’s viability?

Linda: Uh, does Phoebe have some sort of cat litter-snorting problem?

Me: Not as far as I know, but if she thought it would make My Girlfriend feel sorry for her, I’m guessing she’d pretend she did. Why?

Linda: If she isn’t actively inhaling the liter, she doesn’t hafta ditch the cats!

Me: Maybe she’s just trying to shed the last vestiges of her lesbianism.

Linda: Nothing says ex-lesbian like getting rid of your cats! But really, is Phoebe so over pussy that she can’t even have any in her house?

Me: I think it’s more that Phoebe functions in extremes. Also, reality and Phoebe? Not always on speaking terms.

Linda: Okay, but why did she call My Girlfriend?

Me: (confused) Your girlfriend?

Linda: (continuing) Is My Girlfriend the only person in the Chicago area who knows how to dispose of cats?

Me: Wait, your girlfriend?

Linda: No, My Girlfriend.

Me: Phoebe called your girlfriend too?

Linda: No, I’m talking about My Girlfriend. (Supervising Writer’s Note: If you didn’t catch it, she’s referencing the classic comedic dialogue, Who’s on First?) I’m trying the monogamy thing.

Me: But what about everyone you’re seeing? What about Anna? And Allen? And Andrew? And Annabel?

Linda: Well-

Me: Wait, I’m still on the ‘A’s.’

Linda: It was a tough decision. It required a lot of contemplation, deliberate thought and emotional soul searching. This may be a turning point for me, a sort of watershed moment. You’re the first person I’ve told because I knew I could count on you to truly listen and support me.

Me: That’s great Linda. Listen, they made my drink incorrectly. I’m gonna have to call you back. (To Audience) They didn’t really make my drink wrong, I was just sick of listening to her yap. (Dials cell phone.) Hi, can I speak to My Girlfriend? On the other line? Huh. I wonder to whom she might be speaking. (Lights up on My Girlfriend and Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend.)

My Girlfriend: Dude, I’m serious, she’s all kinds of knocked up!

Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend: Who would fuck that dirty pussy anyway? (Lights up on Me/down on Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend.)

Me: She actually said that?

My Girlfriend: Yep.

Me: That’s pretty rude. Why does she think Phoebe is so dirty?

My Girlfriend: Well, it all started when Phoebe tried to get me to fuck her in an alley.

Me: Phoebe wanted you to fuck her in an alley? I thought she never initiated sex.

My Girlfriend: Right before Phoebe and I broke up, she went on a mission to prove she was attracted to women. I think that’s when the alley incident took place.

Me: And Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend thought that made Phoebe dirty?

My Girlfriend: I guess.

Me: (To Linda) So, you can see why that upsets me, right?

Linda: (To someone else) Don’t worry. I’ll get right on it.

Me: Hello? Pouring my heart out here!

Linda: Sorry. That would upset me too. But look at it this way, Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend is probably reacting to the fact that the only time Phoebe wanted sex was in an alley. If it was just one sex act among many she wouldn’t think Phoebe was dirty.

Me: I’m worried it means I’m going to spend the rest of my life making neat quiet love in bed in my pajamas at 11:18 pm.

Linda: Just because Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend is judgmental doesn’t mean My Girlfriend isn’t adventurous.

Me: What does any of this have to do with your girlfriend? We’re talking about My Girlfriend, and she didn’t exactly rush to contradict Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend.

Linda: I know how vital all of this is, but I’m already late for a conference call, can we talk late-

Me: And sex in an alley? That’s pretty white bread. If she thinks that makes Phoebe dirty, I’m in real trouble.

Linda: I know what you mean. Ever since I became monogamous I wonder-

Me: Yeah, right. Totally. Listen, I gotta go. (Hangs up. To offstage Barista) So, that’s a single shot of espresso in a Venti cup with ice. (To audience) Mwa-ha-ha! Now all I have to do is fill this with milk from the condiment bar, throw in some cinnamon, and viola: a 20 ounce iced cinnamon latte for the price of a single shot of espresso! (Swirls long black cape around her and laughs evilly again. Note to the Director: I was thinking about adding an interpretive dance here, a sort of dream sequence, something that communicates the depths of Me’s confusion, but also underscores her irrepressible sexuality, as well as highlights the sociopolitical ramifications of the rising price of Starbucks coffee. We can make a real impact, force Starbucks to lower their prices or at least agree to be our corporate sponsor. Just think of it, Bob Dylan, Nirvana and this play, all lined up neatly next to the espresso machine. Of course it’s easier to fit a CD on a counter than it is a fully mounted theatrical production. Hmm. Lots to think about. Being a playwright is hard! Interpretive dance begins with a dramatic piano chord, something in a minor key. The dance continues as…)

Tanya: (approaching My Girlfriend) Hey, didya hear about Phoebe? (Me pirouettes wildly in the background.)

My Girlfriend: Yeah. Crazy.

Tanya: How’d you hear? (Me begins a tantalizing tango. Around her, lesbians clutch their hearts and faint, overwhelmed with lust.)

My Girlfriend: Phoebe called me.

Tanya: She told you herself? (Me does a kick-ball-change in support of the troops but not the government.)

My Girlfriend: Yeah.

Tanya: Wow. I’m her best friend, and at first she wouldn’t even tell me! (Me breaks out the “Fosse Hands” to indicate a slight preference for Hillary over Obama.)

My Girlfriend: Well, she probably needed time to acclimate to the pregnancy.

Tanya: Oh, she told me that right away, I was talking about the other thing.

My Girlfriend: Other thing?

Tanya: Yeah, the fact that she has no clue who the father is. I mean, two guys in two weeks and no condoms with either one?

My Girlfriend: Excuse me. (Picks up phone.)

Tanya: (Exits muttering) What a shitty part.  I gotta find a new agent.

Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend: No way! Who told you? (Me smoothly transitions into the Charleston, which of course signifies the chasm between humanity and commerce.)

My Girlfriend: Her best friend.

Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend: Some best friend. (Me leaps on top of the condiment bar and pretends to be a giant scissors thereby drawing attention to the plight of the homeless.)

My Girlfriend: You know, Phoebe always wanted to have a baby by the time she was twenty-four. Maybe she got pregnant on purpose. Man, I really dodged a bullet on that one.

Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend: Yeah, you really-wait, unless there’s something huge you’ve neglected to tell me. There’s no way she could have pulled that on you. (Writer’s Note: Oh, it’s huge all right.)

My Girlfriend: You never know. The girl is tricky.

(Me executes a flawless back flip and pours non-fat milk over her head. This could mean any number of things. Art raises questions, people. It doesn’t always answer them. Me strikes a socially significant pose against a garbage can.)

Clueless Woman Who Can’t Figure out Where the Line Starts at Starbucks and Also Happens to be Wearing High Heeled Sandals in the Dead of Winter: Excuse me, are you in line?

CURTAIN

Editor: (Stroking her long white beard) Quite the inconclusive ramble you’ve handed me this month. How do you justify ending it there?

Me: Uh…life is messy and so is art?

(Editor Points her finger and releases a thunderbolt. Me ducks. Or possibly gooses. Supervising Writer’s Note: This is no time for puns. We’re in enough trouble as it is. Both look at the editor who adjusts her sweeping silken robe. )

Me: (To the editor) You might want to work on your aim. You totally missed me.

Editor: (Ignoring Me) Someone check the word count! (A groveling figure scurries toward the editor clutching a stone tablet. She whispers something in the editor’s ear.) Just as I thought. It’s more than a thousand words over.

Me: You were the one who suggested I add more.

Supervising Writer: Don’t second-guess her!

Me: Kiss ass much?

Editor: Silence, both of you.

Me: Hey, nobody puts baby in the corner!

Supervising Writer: That was an allusion to Dirty Dancing, a 1980’s movie starring Patrick Swa-

Me: Will you give it a rest! AARARGHOOOOO! (Me falls to her knees gasping, a smoking lightening bolt sticking out of her chest.)

Editor: The first bolt was just a warning.

Supervising Writer: I knew you’d never miss. Nice work.

Editor: One does what one must. (The stage plunges into black and white and becomes an airfield. Easy enough, right? An airplane propeller whirs into motion. The Editor pops the collar of her trench coat - make a note of that, Diane, we’ll need a quick costume change. The airfield is murky with fog as the two figures begin to walk off stage) An editor’s job is a lonely one.  

Supervising Writer: It doesn’t have to be. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Kari. (Supervising Writer screams and crashes to the ground, a lightning bolt penetrating the back of her skull.)

Editor: I told you not to say my name.

FOR REALS THIS TIME: CURTAIN

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Sarah Terez Rosenblum spent the last four years of her life in Los Angeles and plans to return even though she hated it.  She will be thirty in two years. Thank God she’ll have received her MFA in Creative Writing by then. That way, even though she’ll still be lacking any real idea of what she wants to do with her life, at least she’ll be massively in debt. You can contact her at or visit her at myspace.com/raininariver. You can also buy her a pony. She’s always wanted one.