Inverse Candlelight

Displaced

But not really. I'm at the Prof's house, and it's lovely and tranquil and all is well, except...I have horrible writer's block. It's paralyzing. I have so much to talk about and absolutely no connection between my brain and my typing fingers.

I could talk about the play, and all the ridiculousness involved. I could talk about the trip to Syracuse, which...WAIT! I've got it!!!! Here's how I spent my four hours on the way to Syracuse:

ME: Are we there yet? I have to pee. Do we have enough gas? I'm bored. Are we there yet? When do I get to see a cow? I thought there were cows in upstate New York! What about piggies? If you don't answer me, I'll go through all of "Old McDonald Had a Farm" till you do. You know that McDonalds we had a couple of miles ago? It didn't agree with me. Is it time for MY iPod yet? I'm bored. Are we there yet? Where's the Red Bull? Yes I know I've had three, what's your point?

The Prof: (thinking) I could have lashed her to the roof, that would have worked too.

Oh, did I mention that I haven't had a cigarette in a week? That might have something to do with it as well.

I need another lollypop.

More tomorrow, kittens. I swear.

What Is This? A Blog? What A Curious Invention!

*taps microphone*

HELLO!?!?!? IS THIS THING ON!?!!?!??!

Oh. Hi. HELLO, my precious little kittens!!!! It seems like forever and a day since I've talked to you. That is completely unacceptable! Not fair to the public! Outrageous! And all because I've been working like a completely manic lunatic freak, which is a description most people use for me. So anyway, yes. I've been away for a SHOCKING and UNFAIR amount of time. I apologize. Completely the fault of my job, which is DONE DONE DONE, huzzah, and so I return to the internet tentatively knocking on Al Gore's door, begging y'all to take me back. And here I am! Please embrace me, I need an internetty hug.

One DIVINE thing has been the Professor, who has been here for over a week, and man, not to get schmoopy and betray my PROUDLY SINGLE SISTERS, HOLLA, there is something about going home to someone that makes me well with tears, how happy it makes me, and how much it hurt to go without for so long.

ENOUGH SCHMOOP!

The facts are that today? Monday? My first day of SWEET SWEET FREEDOM? I have no idea what to do with myself. NO IDEA!!!! I keep burning my eyes into the clock trying to see what time I have to go to work. Ridiculous! I can finally relax! So why in the name of Merlin's boxer shorts am I still using exclamation points? Because I have forgotten how to CALM. DOWN. Of course I blame my job and not my bipolar, but I'll thank you not to judge me.

Okay, kittens. I've gotta go. This was a TERRIBLE blog entry. More tomorrow, where I will attempt to make sense and tell some stories from the theatre.

LOVE YA!

All Apologies

Oh, Y'ALL. I'm so so so sorry for being under the radar for the last week or so. The Prof is here, I'm working 14 hour days, blah blah blah anyway. The show ends Sunday, and I swear I'll be back. Promise and stuff. And now? I have to go to work.

KISSES!!!

Miss Banshee

Tales From The Dressing Room

Ooooooooooh, my sweet kittens. Let Auntie Banshee tell you a story from work. Now. When I first volunteered for this job, there were SEVERAL things that I neglected to think about. Included in that list were:

• Fourteen hour days
• Enormous amounts of stress
• Ironing
• Men's dressing rooms

It's the last thing we're going to discuss. The men's dressing room. Never have you seen a place so full of demons than the men's dressing room. There are seven men in the play, and all of them enjoy a bit of conversation before and after the show. I enjoy it a bit less, because I'm hanging up clothes all the live long day, but oh man, the conversations. I've never laughed so hard or been more mortified, I mean MORTIFIED then in the men's dressing room. Here are some topics that the lads enjoy discussing, and keep in mind that these are seven heterosexual men.

• young women, hotness of
• young women, sexual prowess of
• each other, homosexuality of
• each other, level of enjoyment of homosexual sex
• each other, smallness of genetalia
• each other, lack of talent
• each other, lack of sexual skills
• young women, age of
• each other, age of in reference to age of young women
• legality, regarding sexual practices with young women

There's a HELL of a lot more, but I simply cannot bring myself to say it, because it's THAT filthy. Again, hysterical laughing and mortification go hand in hand in these adventures. And it is all due to the fact that every damn performance I am in the room, and every damn performance they forget I'm in the room. Or maybe they just don't care. One of those.

This is my gig, people. Now if only I could get them to hang up their own damn clothes.

Wait, So You're Telling Me You DON'T Have Conversations In Your Head?

Sometimes I get concerned about my sanity. And by "sometimes" I mean all the days and into the nights. Like, I know y'all like the Actual Conversations that I write, but does it make me...weird? Doesn't everyone invent people and things to talk to during the day? I mean, it's not like I'm hearing VOICES here, at least not yet, you never know - and I KNOW y'all talk to your pets, I mean, I've had real grown up conversations with my parents interrupted by my mom needing to tell the dog she's Mom's little angel baby, so don't even front with that. I talked to my GOLDFISH, people. You talk to your pets, don't even lie.

And yes, I write about the cats as if they have a great deal of vocal skills and an impressive vocabulary, especially Lulu, because I like to think of her as an Oxford graduate with a doctorate who happens to poop in a box, and Stewie...Well...to quote Marge Simpson, we love Stewie. He's our special little guy. So he's not so bright! That's okay, right?

Anyway, my point is that as a writer, the Actual Conversations come to me much easier than the standard blog, and I love writing them. So, enjoy this brief snippet between me and Common Sense on the drive to and fro the supermarket today.

Me: I need a food! A FOOOOOOOOOOOD!
Common Sense: Get a salad.
Me: OOooh, maybe a calzone EXPLODING with cheese!
Common Sense: Or a salad.
Me: Or a PIZZA.
Common Sense: Salad.
Me: Nuggets????
Common Sense: Again I persist: Salad.

(after the shopping)

Common Sense: I can't believe you.
Me: (mouth full, eating in the car, exactly what one is not supposed to do) Murfle?
Common Sense: A sloppy joe. Really? Not a salad?
Me: Mouf full. Bite me.
Common Sense: Oh wait, people will think I mean a Manwich. People not from the great and powerful Garden State.
Me: (muffled) Essplain it oooh dem.
Common Sense: Readers. A sloppy joe is a roast beef, swiss cheese, coleslaw and russian dressing sandwich on rye bread. Not the Manwich thing.
Me: Damm stwaight. *chew chew chew*
Common Sense: And need I remind you how NON-NUTRITIOUS it is?
Me: An' ummy.
Common Sense: Yummy, yes. But still, you should have gotten a salad.
Me: You no fun. *finishes eating, barrelling through traffic*
Common Sense: Is there a traffic law we HAVEN'T broken today?
Me: Listen, the old lady in front of us has had her blinker on for three miles. Don't you sass me.

So...you DON'T have these conversations in your head? It's just me? Fantastic. Now I'm officially actively psychotic. Awesome. Oh well, it was bound to happen. And if it's in my head, you're gonna hear about it, so...enjoy my madness, people!

And get it straight about the sandwich. Is v.v. important.

If I'm Sick, Can I Quit?

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
The World: What the holy hell are you doing?
Me: Trying to see my tonsils. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The World: And why are we looking at your tonsils?
Me: Because something feels weird in my throat. Clearly it's disease.
The World: You do realize that this is...
Me: I DO REALIZE THIS IS RETRIBUTION FOR MAKING FUN OF THE PROF FOR BEING SICK.
The World: No need to shout. But...yep.
Me: My tonsil feels like a marble. Or my GLAND. What the hell gland is it?
The World: People are very tired of listening to you whine about your gland.
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
The World: Please stop.

*Later*

Me: And now we tape our feet. Covered in duct tape, the feet. No blisters here!
The World: Or...
Me: Shut UP.
The World: Or you could wear better shoes.
Me: Listen. Here's more information than you need.
The World: Please, no. We're actually on our metaphoric knees begging you.
Me: Too late. My feet have skin made of PAPER. I am VERY DELICATE. LIKE A FLOWER.
The World: Or a wuss.
Me: More like a FLOWER.

*Later*

Me: So Kelly Ripa is wearing a bubble skirt.
The World: That's an awful shame.
Me: It's kind of cute.
The World: NO.
Me: It's a cute print of cherries! Adorable!
The World: NO.
Me: How summer-y! How cute!
The World: NO.
Me: Well, I can't afford new clothes anyway.
The World: And thank the little baby Jeebus in the manger for that.
Me: You know, I don't appreciate the world's tone.

The Dreaded Man Cold...ATTACKS!!!

Oh y'all. I don't WANT to tease the Professor, I really don't. But...but...sometimes it is just so EASY. So I saw the opportunity today and gently - GENTLY LIKE THE SPRING BREEZE - asked him if it was okay to blog about his man cold. He relented, probably because he was delirious from the consumption or rickets, or scurvy that he is suffering from - and so here goes. All true, except for the parts I made up.

The Professor: I. Am. Dying.
Me: No you are not.
The Prof: YES I am. Dying. Dig the grave, call the coroner.
Me: What are your symptoms?
The Prof: Cough! *hack hack hack SNIFF* I have a FATAL COUGH. Also? Stuffy. In the nose. DEAD! I'm already dead.
Me: I think...sweetheart? Darling? Precious? Yooooooooooooou might be exaggerating. Just a touch. A drop. A smidge. I think you might be suffering from the MANCOLD.
The Prof: I can't hear you, the moldy breath of the Grim Reaper is so raspy and ringing in my ear.
Me: Oh for chrissakes.
The Prof: OH FINE, don't believe me. You'll be sorry when I'm dead.
Me: What the fu...no one is dying! You're fine, you just have a cold oh my GOD.
The Prof: I see the light...
Me: I? Give up. Fine, you're dying. The end is near. I'll put fresh flowers on your grave every Sunday, love. Promise.
The Prof: *cough cough snorf* I don't appreciate your tone, miss. OMG I HAVE SWINE FLU.
Me:This conversation is over.

Of course not more than 12 hours later? I have a swollen gland and I'm a little stuffy. CLEARLY THIS IS A FATAL ILLNESS PROBABLY BUBONIC PLAGUE BROUGHT ABOUT BY TOO MANY 12 HOUR DAYS AND MAYBE CHEETOS TOO.

And the Professor? Just blows his nose miserably and reminds me that if I die, he dies too.

We are SO pathetic.

ACHOO!

In Which I Should Have Considered Pants

So I have this dress. It's a little sundress that I got for ONE AMERICAN DOLLAR at a Salvation Army thrift store, and I love it. It's light and airy and totally shapeless and heinously ugly, and it's...okay, it's the short equivalent of a housedress, and at least it's not a muumuu, so leave me be.

I would totally wear a muumuu.

Anyhoo, I was doing laundry today on my one precious day off, and I decided to wear The Dress. It was breezy and warm outside, and FINE, nothing else was clean. So I put on my little dress and did some errands.

Did I mention it was breezy? It was breezy. And y'all know me, so of course you know where this is going.

I hop in the car (whoosh goes the skirt) and went to the grocery store. Got my groceries, paid, went out of the store, towards the car and...

WOOSH.

UP went the skirt, DOWN went my hands to cover mah business, and AWAY went my cart. Come back, cart! You contain nuggets!!!! So did I gather the skirt in my hand so it couldn't fly all over the place as I fled to capture my cart before it hit that LEXUS OH MY GOD????

No. Of course i didn't. I let that skirt FLY, people. And I hope the poor old dude who looks like he has never smiled in his life who collects the carts enjoys underpants with monkeys on them, cause WHOA BOY DID HE SEE THEM. So did a gaggle of mean girls off to buy Diet Cokes at the drug store, and some senior citizens and soccer moms. WITNESS MY DRAWERS, NEW JERSEY!!!!

I slammed one hand over my lady parts, (WOOSH went the skirt over my ass) and caught the cart (WOOSH) and I had a vision of those little girls who proudly grab their dresses and fling them over their heads to display their big girl underpants.

People. I was showing everyone my big girl underpants. And they had monkeys on them.

I FLED to my car, my dress floating like a SAIL behind me, and THREW the bags of groceries into the car (WOOSH!) dumped the cart in a non-designated space (I'm SO SORRY, Man who never smiles, but...NAKED HERE) and hurled myself into the car, speeding away like I was in the Indy 500.

And so ends the story-

Oh wait.

I had to get the groceries OUT of the car at my apartment.

WOOSH goes the dress.

"Hi!" goes my neighbor lady.

"YES, THEY HAVE MONKEYS, DON"T YOU JUDGE ME" howls I.

And this, friends, is YET ANOTHER REASON I should have a helmet, or a caregiver, or some DAMN PANTS.

Effing Common Sense Is Back. Oh Joy.

Me: I'm tired.
Common Sense: That's because you're working! It's grand, is it not?
Me: I'm so tired. No, it's not grand. It's not even good. There is no good here!
CS: Now now now. It can't be that bad.
Me: I'd go into specifics, but the internet is bored already.
CS: You're a working girl!
Me: I'm not a HOOKER! Oh, wait. You mean like the movie.
CS: Yes! Like the movie! Working for a living!
Me: Everything hurts. My back, my legs, my eyes, my hair, my SOUL.
CS: So dramatic.
Me: You wanna see my feet??? They look like a ZOMBIE MOVIE.
CS: That doesn't even make any sense.
Me: Yes it DOES. They look all disgusting and bleedy!
CS: Gross, honey. No one wants to hear about your feet.
Me: I hate you. We've got to go, we've got two shows today.
CS: Oh, I'm not going.
Me: But...YES YOU ARE. I NEED you. Who's going to keep me from quitting?
CS: You quit at least three times a day. No one lets you.
Me: Well, yes. And I beg to be fired.
CS: Which doesn't work either.
Me: Maybe I'll punch someone in the neck. THAT will get me fired!
CS: No one is going to fire you. No one is going to let you quit. Give it up.
Me: FINE. No one lets me quit, no one will let me get fired. This whole operation sucks.
CS: Think of the rewards!
Me: My limbs feel like they will shatter like glass figurines with a toddler in the room.
CS: Your penchant for similes and metaphors make me weary.
Me: Why aren't you going?
CS: Well...
Me: SPILL IT, ASSHOLE.
CS: It's the finale of the Amazing Race! ONE of us should be able to watch it.
Me: *dissolves into hysterical tears*

As The Courtyard Turns: Hey, At Least She Didn't Die!

Neighbor Lady: Hi! How are you?
Me: Oh, going to work, which is something I do. That's all I do. Please save me.
Neighbor Lady: That's nice! I almost broke my leg yesterday!
Me: Oh! That's...awful, actually.
NL: I have a hematoma!
Me: Wow, that's a lot of information.
NL: Wanna see?
Me: Do I have a choice?
NL: *pulls up pant leg*
Me: Wow. You weren't kidding, were ya.
NL: I lay on my kitchen floor forEVER.
Me: Oh no! You couldn't reach the phone?
NL: Oh I could, I just didn't know who to call.
Me: Um, the AMBULANCE comes to mind.
NL: I'm not paying for an ambulance!
Me: Naturally. Well...I guess...Um...
NL: Can I get your phone number?
Me: Oh! Um...
NL: You could have saved my life!
Me: I...suppose I could have! Wow, you're not giving me many options here, are you?
NL: Let me write down your number on this receipt with an eyeliner.
Me: I...suppose? But don't call at night! That's when I work!
NL: I'll try not to die on your schedule!
Me: Awesome. This whole thing. Awesome. Wow.