Props Mistress

Jacket, swap. Blouse, Jovovich-Hawk for Target. Jeans, Lucky. Ballet flats, Steven Madden. Headband, Forever 21. Beer, Miller Lite. (And that’s Sammy the Cat in the background licking his unmentionables.)

Being props mistress is a tough job. For instance, I’ve had to drink all this beer in order to refill the bottles with water to use as props. It’s a real hardship.


This is the first time I’ve done props for a show, and it’s given me an appreciation for grumpy props people I’ve dealt with in the past. In Mrs. Bob Cratchit’s Wild Christmas Binge, our props lady started the run by bringing in fresh hamburgers and fries for a scene in which we ate McDonald’s Happy Meals. Now, eating on stage is tough. First off, you’re simply not hungry. Secondly, you really have to watch how much you put in your mouth so that you are ready to deliver your next line (although that didn’t stop our Tiny Tim). After Mrs. Props yelled at us for not eating the food, we got buns only and cold fries for the rest of the performances. Yum.

Now I’m grumpy props lady. I want the actors to DISPLAY my props. Especially the tabloid covers I just whipped up:


I’m hoping the next show I do props for requires an empty ice cream carton or pizza box. I’ll gladly take care of the contents. (That's of course, assuming, they'll have me back as props mistress. I'm such a diva.)