In Which It Becomes Really Quite Necessary To Ask The Question, "Oh God, What Are We Going To Do With Her?"

You know what I did yesterday, in celebration of my recent epiphany?

I went out and bought a miniskirt.

You know something else?

It looks damn good on me.

---

Jenny Cashwell was taking a bath. Jenny liked baths. They were an excellent excuse to lie around in hot liquid, eat exorbiant amounts of chocolate, and read. All of these were occupations that Jenny vigorously approved of. As Jenny lay in the now lukewarm water, a little voice in her head, which had bothered her to no end of late, said, "He dumped you." Jenny furrowed her brow, then said, in a way particularly reminiscent of the Jenny of yesteryear, "I dunno about that. I don't suppose 's necessary, or even true, to go around calling it that. And it won't change the situation, will it? Then again, 's not as if 's a particularly bad situation in the first place."

"That," said the voice in Jenny's head, "is part of your problem. Since you got up the nerve to call him and sound like an episode of 7th Heaven after you stopped nattering about chromatics - you've been entirely too satisfied with yourself."

"I know," replied Jenny, grinning like the Cheschire cat. "But really, there was no reason to get all upset about him. Anymore, I mean. That is, it's not as though he's got the - I dunno - vehemence to dump anyone. He's really just satisfied with sitting around pretending to be Sigmund Baccorat Freud the Second."

"Well, 's odd that you'd say all that, 'cos I distinctly remember your sounding as though you thought he was a complete scumbag on the phone."

Jenny splashed at the water. "'S going gray. I'll get out soon. What was that? - Oh. No, no, he's simply just innocent enough to be mistaken for a scumbag. Poor thing. Still, I'm sure there's a nice Jewish physcology student out there waiting for him. They can cross examine 'n' phsycoanalyze each other all night long over matzoh ball soup. 'S kind of charming, the way he is, I'm sure she'll say. I'm sure they'll hit it off. The twits," she added affectionately, as though she adored twits particularly, which she did, in her own Jenny-ish way.

"But you're in love with him. You've got to be unhappy."

"No I don't," said Jenny impertinently, and then added slowly, "but I'm not in love with him anymore. I suppose when I'll see him again I'll say. . .I'll say. . .'Well, Jake, I loved you very much. How's tricks?'"

"Wish I'd been that practical about the Christine business," said a certain masked persona from outside the bathroom door.

"Shut up, Erik. Pull your mask over your eyes and toss me my robe." Jenny rose happily from the bath as the Phantom of the Opera began his task. "Our plumbers cheated us with this bath, or my name's not Jenny Cashwell."

"Which brings me to an interesting point," remarked Erik. "Why keep the name? He gave it to you anyway, didn't he?"

"Stop with the italics. 'S not as though you're taking the Lord's name in vain. Such drahhhhmaaahhh. Then again, I suppose you can't help it, being an Andrew Lloyd Webber character. Sweeney never whines like that, and he's a Sondheim." She yanked her robe on. "About the name, though. . .I dunno. I like it. I use it. It's my name. I mean, I've made it my own, like. HSF happened to me, too.

"It's my movie too."

"That's the spirit, love," chortled a stout, maternal looking woman in a leather miniskirt, "men are pillocks, the lot of 'em," she added, nudging her man, a bald specimen who looked remarkably like Michael Cerveris. (That was because he sort of was.) The two of them, Mrs Lovett and Sweeney Todd (nee Benjamin Barker) were nestled at the computer. Todd was googling himself, and Mrs Lovett was laughing loudly at the whole business.

"I suppose they are," laughed Jennny, emerging in a long white bathrobe that hadn't been washed since kingdom came. "Anyone know where my clothes are?"

"You should never ask a roomful of men that," Mrs Lovett observed, but, relenting, added, "They're on the floor by the yellow armchair."

"Oh, yes," Jenny muttered, and began carrying the clothes into the closet, to dress. She emerged, clad in a fetching tuxedo except for her beat up old Seven jeans.

"Will you ever get rid of those?" Erik demanded.

"No," Jenny replied frankly. "I'll be an old lady in ripped, bleached, stained, low rise Seven jeans. And what's more, I shall be happy."

"'S a matter of taste," remarked a pirate with long braided hair, crawling out from under the bed. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Johnny Depp. "I myself prefer women in no clothes at all."

Mrs Lovett giggled, and Sweeney, speaking, or rather, grunting, for the first time, grunted disapprovingly.

"Eh," said Lovett. "As Toby once said to me, men ain't like women. They ain't like what you can trust. As I've lived and learned!"

Jenny snickered. "I dunno. I don't fancy myself terribly trustworthy either, and I was a woman last time I checked. Hey," she added, rummaging about in a drawer, "have any of you lot seen my J.G. mask?"

"I thought you were quitting," remarked Erik.

"She lied!" Observed Jack Sparrow, mock-horrified.

"Phantom," replied Jenny, with a sort of resigned happiness. "I s'pose I am, in the end."

"Here it is," said Todd shortly, handing her the slice of white mask.

Jenny slipped it on. It felt good, like comfortable old shoes. "You can only run away from yourself for so long, really. I never understood how fast and strong I was 'till I was after me. 'S funny."

She slid on her old Uggs, which wer comfortable, though odiferous, and sat down at the computer, shoving Todd off his chair.

"Phantom pie," he groused, but she merely rolled her eyes. The green glow of the screen turned her face a limey shade. Glory, glory, glory, muffins and insanity and RENT and friends, just a click away. She was, after all, the Phantom of the Junior High.

"All right, Lovett and gentlemen, let's got out there and make some trouble."

AT LAST! MY RIGHT ARM IS COMPLETE AGAIN!

Quote of the Day

"Nothing can come from nothing. Blog again."

- King Lear. Sort of.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.