I feel like getting up on my high horse about something. But I have nothing to get up on it about. Which feels strange, like if I don't find something fast I'll accidentally pick a fight with some poor unwitting shopper in the nearby Natural Foods store. (This is indeed where I spend most of my time these days.)
Maybe I'll just ramble. It's for the good of everyone, really. The longer I sit here talking to you the more time I cease to terrorize yoga-mat-carrying, raw-honey-buying, cloth-bag-bringing 30-somethings. Though I know you want to hear about that too.
Every single night, I wake up at about 3am to pee. Even if I drink nothing six hours before bed. It's always crap shoot if I'll fall cozily back asleep or stay awake consumed with terror about how my small life is about to change forever. Last night it was the latter. Sometimes I listen to meditation mp3s until I begin to drift, but often the soothing voices just make me pissy. Sometimes I'll roll around for a while until Soph wakes up and asks "are you okay?" which usually is enough to quiet my corybantic soul. But last night was a doozy. Let's just say the internet was involved, along with some failed Oscar fashions and a website devoted to nothing but socks. A dark place indeed.
So, woke up late. Checked email from my bed. Wrote a teeny bit in my journal (more panic). Ate a bowl of Kashi Autumn Wheat with Lactose Free Milk. Almost wrote a blog entry to my thighs and ass, yelling at them for getting huge ("what the fuck, dudes? Is that TOTALLY necessary?") And then, wrote to you, my capricious pets.
What now, you ask? Well, I'm gonna do some exercises from my Prenatal Fitness Fix DVD. Then, work on some freelance design. Then, mope about how I can't drink coffee. And THEN-- wait for it-- go see the new Chuck Mee play at the Signature.
You: AWESOME report, Sheila. Now go stalk some hippies, you tedious peacock.
Me: Stop yelling at me.
Someone Else: Help her, Juan Valdez. You're her only hope.
(GOD I wish that website had music...)
Today I ate the biggest frosted brownie. As big as your head. Seriously, put your head next to this and tell me you aren't a little scared. Then picture yourself eating one in like three bites.
And then Soph made a batch of these, which tasted so ridiculous I immediately ate three.
And before that, I bought a tiny one of these and ate some for lunch, which is nothing compared to yesterday when I gobbled whole one of these with elaborate swiftness, like it was an emergency.
Dag.
...because y'all know, a oily salit ain't SHIT.
Step yuh game up, son....
(Yes that's really Coolio.)
And please watch episode #2 when they kidnap Josh, a "hongry, broke-ass, mal-nutritioned, top-ramen-eaten" college student. They duct-tape his head and force-teach him how to cook a steak. Choice quotes:
Coolio: THE HOT SAUCE IS FOR COLOR!
Josh: Please don't hit me.
via Ellie...
It's sunny and warm aaaallll day.
I could live here.
The show in Phoenix is doing great overall, nice press, exciting response... however I was directed toward one radio review that compelled me to issue a warning to all wit-challenged, pea-brained reviewers out there (yes you, Chris Curcio)... for the love of Christ, PLEASE invest in a better thesaurus.
Upon a quick listen, here's my inventory of synonyms from the review:
Instances of "weird/weirdo": 5
Instances of "bizarre": 6
Instances of "wacky/wacko": 3
Instances of "peculiar": 1
Instances of "warped": 1
Instances of "oddball": 1
Instances of "unreal": 1
Instances of "outlandish": 1
Instances of "far out there": 1
All that in a three-minute review. That's basically the entire text. Give it a listen.
Can you imagine this numb-nut reviewing Sam Beckett? Or (heaven forbid) David Lynch?
Hey Chris, if you happen to Google your name and stumble upon this post, here is the actual fairy tale upon which the play was based. It's a British folktale conceived hundreds of years before you were born, from which I extracted most of the plot points of my play. Somehow the story wasn't so weird as to have avoided being passed down through the generations.
Doesn't it seem as though nearly all other narrative forms bypass the same kind of literal subjugation to which theatre critique is often subject? Don't you find this a bit dispiriting, Chris? You should...
And finally? Don't pronounce the G. It's SILENT.
(A LETTER THAT MAKES NO SOUND???? HOW FUCKING WEIRD IS THAT??? )
This has been cheering me up lately. I watched it today about six times in a row to keep me from hurling psychic hate daggers at my upstairs neighbors, who let their spastic boy run around in lead shoes from 3-8pm every friggin' day.
I always picture myself as the Steve Martin character. Not in the whole movie, just in this scene. Walking on the beach on a spring night with an odd little pixie in a sailor hat gazing up at me with big saucer eyes... isn't it perfect in a way?
Oh hey, thanks for all your thoughts re: my new growth (or "Blasto", as Soph and I call him/her, short for blastocyst)... I do appreciate it. But don't get impatient with me if I don't talk about it all too much... I'm feeling uncharacteristically private. Maybe that will go away.
In the meantime... another Youtube treat from some French-Candadian music nerd. Stick with it, if not for your own amusement then out of general respect for the feat at hand.
Holy. Effing. Shite.
Best (and queasiest) quote: "'I always had brains on my arms,' she said."
