BaddMinton

Guess what, Friends? I’m going to New York on Monday to meet my dad and see two Broadway musicals! It has been yeeeeeaaaarrs since I’ve seen anything on Broadway. The first one I saw was Les Miserables, and boy, did I fall in love with that show. I still love it with all my heart, as I do a few others I’ve seen. But as I’ve gotten older, I find myself looking at certain storylines a little… differently.

For example:

Eponine in Les Mis: If you’re not familiar with her story, there’s this whole thing where this guy Marius meets this girl Cosette, and they fall in love and sing beautiful duets and so forth. Well, Eponine has been friends with Marius forever and is secretly in love with him, and can’t stand it when he falls for Cosette. Hence the song “On My Own,” and Eponine piping into other songs singing about how she’s all alone and isn’t life so hard and yadda yadda yadda. Well, when I was in high school, I romanticized the ever-loving shit out of Eponine’s story. Wasn’t it so heartbreaking that she loved this man, and he just treated her like one of the guys? Wasn’t it valiant of her to deliver this letter from Marius to Cosette in the middle of the French Revolution and get shot on the way, and didn’t that just serve Marius right to have her die in his arms? Wasn’t she the most beautiful, the most tragic, the most passionate, amazing woman?

Um… and now I just find myself thinking, “Girl! Pull yourself together! Sure, this dude has a lovely singing voice, but he’s in love with somebody else.” I mean, I’m frankly more than a little embarrassed for her. She’s kind of making a fool of herself if you get right down to it. She needs to stop whining, stop obsessing, pull herself up by the bootstraps, go get some fondue and a glass of burgundy, and eventually meet a man who actually notices her. Geez, right? Seriously, lady, put on your beret and go get on your bike with a long loaf of bread in the basket, and I’m sure you’ll meet someone new in no time. Someone who will make you forget all about Marius and his pesky girlfriend. I mean, you don’t need him! Sure, it may take time to mend your heart, but I suggest getting some fine milled soap and taking a bubble bath. Hunker down with a good Victor Hugo novel to take your mind off things. Go ride a carousel or get a crepe or listen to some accordian music, I don’t know, these are just things I’m throwing out there.  But my point is, when I was 16, this character was like my hero, and now, well… well.

And while I’m at it, what’s up with Rent? I mean, some of the characters I have to admit are really in tough spots, like Mimi for example (AIDS, junkie); and the Collins (AIDS) and Angel (dies of AIDS) storyline is heartbreaking. And it sucks that Roger’s gf killed herself (because she had AIDS). That really does suck. But still… Maureen and Joanne seem fine and in good health. And Mark seems to have had a pretty stable existence up until now, and his mom seems positively delightful — I mean, she sent him a hotplate for goodness’ sake, and she calls him all the time to tell him she loves him — and yet he’s burning posters and screenplays to keep himself warm because he hasn’t paid the heating bill? And everyone’s bitching and moaning because Benny is making them pay…. oh my gosh, say it isn’t so… Rent! Like, because, aaaahhh, what a hardship to have to pay for the place where you live! Oh my gosh, he’s such an asshole for asking us to pay him to live in the building he owns! We would prefer to live for free!

Oh yeah? Would you? Would you prefer to live for free? Because you believe your housing is someone else’s responsibility? There’s a word for that, and it’s “communism,” and I’d like to see you move to a communist country and try to be a professional actress or musician or filmmaker there. Go ahead, Maureen. Be my guest, Mark; Roger. Go move to China and start a band and get some gigs and see how well you do.

Listen, I get it. I’m an artist, too. And I would much prefer to spend all day languishing about, creating, rather than working a day job just to pay the bills. But since I’m not an heiress, I accept that sacrifices must be made, and I get it done. And maybe you should do the same, Cast of Rent. And you know what, Eponine? I’ve had my heart broken, too, and I’ve been into plenty of guys who weren’t into me back. (I know, it’s reeeeeeally hard to believe, but it has happened). And did I moan and cry and sing sad songs all the time? Well… OK, I did write a bunch of bad poetry about boys I liked in middle school, and you should see how ridiculous my journals from circa 1993 were… but I mean, ahem…  You get my point.

So anyway. When I’m in New York, am I going to be a cynical old lady? Am I going to look at these characters and roll my eyes and go, “Puhlease, Billy Elliot. You’re a boy! In a coal-mine strike! Just practice your boxing and for Pete’s sake, put that leotard away.” Or, “Maria! Maria! Can you hear me?! This guy is going to cause you no end of trouble. There are plenty of cute boys in your own gang!”

Will I? Or will I cry my eyes out and love every minute?

I’ll keep you posted.

Why do things taste so good when you’ve been drinking?

I just had a couple drinks at the bar, and I got home and was putting on my PJs, and I was in my closet and noticed for the first time since I’ve moved into this apartment that there was a box of raisins on my dresser. Now, I remember that I got these raisins on an airplaine, and as I recall, the last time I was on a plane was when I flew to North Carolina for Christmas. So for some reason… when I moved in March, I chose to bring that box of raisins with me. Sure, I got rid of the slipcovers that were custom made for the couch, and which I’ve wished I had every day for the last three months. Sure, I gave away my vacuum cleaner and my garbage can with the lid for the kitchen, and the lid for the other little trash can for the bathroom, and that whiteboard that I could have used instead of buying a new one… but I kept the raisins. The raisins from December.

And in my state of moderate buzz just now, I opened the box and inspected the raisins for any sign of mold or decay, and finding none, I stuffed several in my mouth, and I’m telling you people, it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’m pretty confident that anything I put in my mouth right now would take on that title. Something about alcohol makes everything taste so damn good. Is there a scientific explanation for this? If you have any inside knowledge, please let me in on it!

Meanwhile, I’ll be digging under the couch cushions for little bags of peanuts.

Guess what, Internet?

My sister is having a baby, and she just told me today that it’s a little boy, and they’re naming him Lucas, which I think is the most wonderful thing ever, and just now I was thinking about it in the bathroom at work and unconsciously began dancing around on my tiptoes, and then a woman came in and I had to pretend to be adjusting my hair like a civilized person.

It’s the end of an era.

I’m moving out of the house I’ve lived in for the last six-plus years, the only place in Los Angeles that I’ve called home. On March 1st I’m moving about half an hour away to Los Feliz with my friend Mary. It happened so much faster than I thought it would. We started looking with the intention that we wouldn’t move unless we found something absolutely perfect in the exact neighborhood we wanted. I thought it would take months, but within a few weeks, there it was! We went last night to talk about deposits with the property manager, and as soon as we left her apartment and she shut the door behind us, Mary and I gripped each other’s arms and started jumping around in a silent, elated screaming fit.

Then I woke up this morning and realized that not only am I moving to a great new apartment in a delightful community, I’m leaving my house and the neighborhood I have loved SO much for the last six years. So much has happened here, and its walls have always been a welcoming refuge. It all sort of hit home this morning, and I started out my commute with a heavy heart. Then I did the only thing I could do. I started belting out “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” by Boyz II Men. As I finished up the last notes the second time through, I perked up to listen to what they were saying on NPR. It was about the bill Barack Obama signed into law today: The Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act, named for a woman who sued Goodyear for gender discrimination after learning she’d been earning 40% less than her male co-workers for twenty years, and ultimately lost, due to the dumbness of the dumb old law.

The part that moved me the most was the ad Lilly made for Obama’s campaign after learning that John McCain opposed the bill — an ad that, according to political consultant Frank Luntz, was one of the few effective negative ads in the campaign: “John McCain opposed a law to give women equal pay for equal work,” Lilly says in her endearing Alabama accent, ”and he dismissed the wage gap, saying women just need education and training. I had the same skills as the men at my plant. My family needed that money.”

“Wow,” I said outloud, and then shouted, “TAKE THAT, JOHN MCCAIN!” Then I immediately burst into tears. I must have been well-hydrated, because tears were shooting out of my eyes at an alarming rate, soaking my face and making my collar damp and soggy. I reached into the glove compartment to see if I had any kleenex or napkins, but all I found was a clean pair of underwear.

There I was, driving down Wilshire Boulevard at 7:45 AM, mourning the impending loss of my old home and experiencing crippling gratitude for this moment in history, for Obama and Lilly Ledbetter and for everyone who has fought so hard for their fellow human beings. And crying into a pair of panties.

So much is changing in the world. Some of it is bad, but a whole lot is very, very good. I tend to be optimistic to a fault, but I’m very hopeful about this world shift, and feel in many ways that it’s a new dawn of sorts. On a much smaller scale, I know the change will be good for me, too. It was time, and it felt right. But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss the cozy, sunny house I’ve come to know as home.

All together now: “And I’ll taaaaaaaake with me the memorieeeeees to be my sunshine after the raaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn. It’s so haaaaaaaard to say goodbyyyyyyyyyeeee to yesterdaaaaaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeeee!

Did you know that cash money is the number-one carrier of pink eye? (Who just told me that? Someone just told me that recently. Matt Newell? I think so). Money is filthy! And it makes sense, because all God’s children are passing it around all day, from hand to grubby hand, in and out of sweaty pockets, dropped on bathroom floors and picked up again, and whatever else you can imagine; if a place is gross, I’ll bet money has been there.

That said, if you’re too grossed out to keep your cash now and want to get rid of it, I’ll be more than happy to take it off your hands — then you can go wash those hands immediately. You’re welcome.

Today I went to the big, pretty central library, which I’ve been frequenting ever since I started working up the street from it. Those sillies got all mixed up about my fines. I had a fine of $3.60, which I paid on Dec. 1, then checked out 3 more books, which I also let get overdue. I renewed them online on the 15th, and owed a 90-cent fine. Well, they were trying to tell me that I had paid the 90 cents and still owed the $3.60! I made the woman get her manager, and the manager kept saying the same thing over and over: “It shows that you paid the 90 cents but not the $3.60.” Which is physically impossible, because I hadn’t been to the library since I checked out the books that eventually cost me the 90 cents. And even more illogical, you can’t check out books when you have fines, and clearly I checked out 3 more books on the 1st, so clearly I must have paid my fines. Sigh. Sometimes people do not use their brains.

Despite the fact that the difference we’re talking about here was $2.70, it’s the principle of the whole thing. You can’t just take my (filthy) cash and forget about it and tell me I didn’t pay it, because I did, by George. And I stood there and pointed out the logic of my thinking and non-logic of hers until she waived the $3.60. But the whole time she acted like she was doing me some huge favor, like it was somehow my fault that they don’t securely fasten their thinking caps. Sigh again. In any case, I was proud of myself for sticking to my guns. And by the by, I paid my correct 90-cent fine and made sure to get a receipt.

So after that happened, I went into the library gift shop, which has become a favorite spot of mine to buy gifts due to its selection of generally awesome and delightful things. Awesome and delightful, but not particularly cheap. I ended up dropping a cool hundy on a handful of gifts for others (and two calendars for myself). As my break ended and I walked back inside and up to my desk, I was contemplating this “cool hundy” and wondering about other “hip” ways to say that I just spent a hundred dollars that I hadn’t expected to spend, because somehow if I say it in a different way it makes me feel a little better about the whistling sound of wind blowing through the sparsely populated tundra of my bank account. And the other way to refer to a hundred is, of course, as a Benjamin, but at that moment I couldn’t remember if old Benny Boy Franklin is on the hundred or the twenty. So I came back to my desk and looked it up, and here’s what I found out: (Thanks, Marshu.com.)

I’m thinking I want to start referring to all paper solely by the first name of the man whose face is on it, or a nickname where appropriate, and all coins by last names only. “Do you have change for an Andy?” I’ll ask. “One Alex, an Honest Abe, and five Georges would be good. Thanks!” Or, “Can I get four Washingtons for a George?” Sometimes I’ll call one-dollar bills “Jorge”s, to acknowledge the increasingly significant Latin American influence here in the U.S. And I always get excited to see Toms, because you just don’t see them very often.

Has anyone ever seen a Woodrow Wilson, or a “Woody”? (ahem). I know I sure haven’t — but life’s not over yet! I did one time hold fourteen crisp Grovers in my hand when my dad was about to buy a car with cash, and that was a nice feeling indeed. It would have been even nicer if the Grovers were mine, but still.

Someday I hope to have a Woody’s worth of cash and more. But for now I’d be thrilled if I could drum up a Salmon or two and a couple Jimmys. And if they’re crawling with Pink Eye, that’s just a sacrifice I’ll have to make.

I’m turning 30 this March, and I’ve only just started to think about what I want to do to celebrate. Last Thursday I got my hair cut (and ran out of gas — FYI, if you drive a Subaru Impreza, don’t try to drive to Pasadena with the gas light on — more about that later), and my hairstylist was talking about New Orleans, and I recalled that I’ve always wanted to go there — indeed, visiting the city is on my shiny new bucket list. I thought, what better time than my 30th birthday?

Well, for some reason, flights and hotels cost money — like, more than five dollars kind of money. I know! And seeing as how I’m still recovering from having been mostly unemployed for four months and am now a temp with no paid vacation days, I started to investigate the hostel scene in New Orleans… until my wise friend Elise reminded me that I’m turning THIRTY, and ringing in that milestone by staying in a hostel is just sad and will not be allowed, and I agree. But anyway, for a minute I was reading reviews on hostels and found this gem written by someone from Denmark named Knud:

It´s a hostel for hippi- people and youth who want to reknow their anal face - living in shit and enjoy- or fly away being high. –knud, from Denmark

Do you think “reknow their anal face” is a phrase directly translated from an expression they use in Denmark? I’d like to know. Either way, I somehow think I know exactly what he’s saying and found his review as helpful as any other, or more so. Clearly, I’m not a hippi- person (or a youth, for that matter), and if I did want to stay in a hostel, I would certainly take Knud’s advice and steer clear of that one.

So I may or may not go to New Orleans for my birthday. I had really, really wanted to organize a ski trip with friends this winter to Big Bear, Mammoth, or Tahoe, and I surely won’t be able to do both unless a rich old aunt I didn’t know I had suddenly dies and leaves me a fortune. But if I don’t make the trip to the land of hurricanes and Cajun food, what will I do to celebrate my having lived on this earth for 3 decades? Sigh. I wish I could ask Knud. He always knows exactly what to say.

This weekend I went to Austin, Texas, and while there, saw a nativity scene made of SOCK MONKEYS!!!! in somebody’s front yard. If you think this wasn’t the best nativity scene I’ve ever seen, you’re wrong, and if you think the teeny tiny monkey baby Jesus wasn’t the cutest thing this side of the Mississippi, think again.

Yes, I took pictures, and yes, I will upload them as soon as I get my act together.

My old friend Rebecca, a.k.a. The Feisty Tourist, had a post on her blog suggesting that her readers make bucket lists, like that old man movie with Jack Nicholson from a couple years ago. ”Bucket list” meaning a list of things you want to accomplish before you die (kick the bucket). I don’t know why I’ve never done it before, but why the H not? Goals are always good. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Attend the Kentucky Derby wearing a fabulous dress and hat.

Have a passionate make-out scene in the rain, just like in the movies but real.

Travel around the world, especially to Japan and New Zealand.

Ski in the alps and stay in a cute alpine chateau.

Learn to speak Spanish fluently.

Learn to meditate.

Visit New Orleans and Philadelphia to experience jazz, food, history, and brotherly love.

Go to the Sundance Film Festival to watch one of my own films.

Clarify my spiritual beliefs.

There! Now after a few short minutes, I’ve created all these things to look forward to! What would be on y’all’s lists?

This is a testament to my steadfastness; to my desire to finish what I’ve started; and mostly to my love of drinks with umbrellas in them.

I have been trying, for almost two years, to get a free tropical vacation for two that someone promised me.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, it wasn’t a time-share sales pitch or an internet pop-up ad or someone who also promised me a handful of magic beans in exchange for my cow.

I was on a game show called Starface in the summer of 2006. There were three contestants, and near the end, I was neck in neck with one of the others. We were in the round where we were holding Anna-Nicole Smith masks over our faces and answering in her voice (yep). The answer to a question was Playmate of the Year. I just said “Playmate,” and it was wrong, and the other guy answered it correctly and won by a slim margin. After the show, the contestant producers came up to me and said they should have let me try to answer it completely before giving it to him, so here’s what they’d do: If the show got picked up for the next season, I’d get to go back on and try again. If it didn’t, I’d receive a grand prize vacation for two to a tropical destination. SWEET!

Well, being the kind of show in which contestants wear cardboard masks of celebrities, it did not get picked up for a second season… meaning… a vacation for me and one lucky guest! Right? Um… well, as it turns out, after 29 years of living on this planet, I have somehow managed to remain hopelessly trusting. Believing they meant what they said and intended to actually do it, I failed to get any sort of official document. As soon as I realized the show wasn’t returning, I went, “OH! I should contact someone… ” and proceeded to search for someone’s contact info. Finally I dug something up, and I emailed her and emailed her and emailed her, and she apparently was emailing someone else at another office who wasn’t emailing her back, so she finally gave me his info so I could contact him directly, so I did, and didn’t hear back, and emailed again and again and finally heard from a third person who said it was now out of this office’s hands and I needed to contact the network… so I did, with this one address she gave me, and didn’t hear back, and didn’t hear back, and didn’t hear back… until finally I ran into the original contestant producer on a NEW game show I was on recently, and she gave me a new name of someone at the network, Kevin, so I called him and spoke to his assistant, then You guessed it! didn’t hear back, so I called again and emailed just to be safe, then finally heard the very encouraging, “We haven’t forgotten; we’re working on it. Please contact us again near the end of the month.”

That was early November, so I emailed again today and received an email back from a brand new person, Joel, who said that Kevin was no longer working there and that now legal was “investigating the situation” and he would let me know. Sigh.

Do y’all think I’m getting this vacation? Am I the biggest, dumbest, optimist ever? Because I still believe I am. Despite two years of being passed from hand to hand like a dish of salted nuts*, I still firmly believe that I will get that vacation, for two reasons: #1: It is the right thing to do. They told me I’d get it, and I can’t help but believe that somewhere in every human is the need to do the right thing. and #2: I am going to continue to politely bug the hell out of these people until they give me the dang vacation that they told me they were giving me!!!!!

Please picture me on a beautiful beach somewhere, with white sand and clear water, sipping the fruitiest of drinks, with a big smile on my face. Thank you! Now I’m one step closer. And while you’re at it, can you help me steal this golden-egg-laying hen from underneath this sleeping giant? Thanks.

*That wonderful descriptive phrase is from a Nicky Silver play, I think called Free Will and Wanton Lust, unless I’m confusing it with another one.

Aaaaaahhhhhh, dudes, I was just in my bathroom in my underwear standing at the sink, and I felt something very light touching my back, and without panicking, I turned to look in the mirror, and there was a terrifying spider on my BARE BACK. He or she had climbed down his/her web from the ceiling, I’m deducing, and stopped to rest on my BACK!!! I shouted, “OH MY GOSH! OH MY GOSH!” Luckily s/he kept on moving down the web, and I was able to grab the web and move it away from me, and the spider went on the floor and I was able to look at him/her more closely, and s/he’s the kind with stripey legs and a picture of something on his/her back, and I left the scene and abandoned my task and came over here to tell you guys about it. I really don’t mind spiders that much; I don’t! I just really and truly do not want them on ME!

For the past several weeks I’ve been interning at an improv comedy theatre, and one of my jobs is to hand out flyers as people are leaving the shows. The other night I noticed that it goes in waves, like traffic when you’re trying to take a left onto a busy road. A big chunk of people will all take flyers, then someone says “No thanks,” and 5 or 6 more people in a row say no. Then some trailblazer renegade takes one again, and the 10 people behind him or her all take one, too. People just want to do what other people are doing! We’re copycats, sheep, and a little bit puppets. Sheepuppycats. Copuppyysheep. Copysheepets.

In 6th grade, our teacher Mrs. Harter had us, as a class, write a rap — yes, a rap — about taking care of the earth. We called it the Pollution Rap, and we spent, I don’t know, like an hour a day for at least a week working on this thing. Some highlights that I remember include these golden nuggets:

“Oil spills and landfills give you chills

when you think of all the things it kills.”

and

“Air conditioners and aerosol sprays

are ruining the ozone and letting in the rays.”

and of course we had the requisite “Reduce it! Re-use it! Just don’t abuse it!” chorus, with Kenji Lunsford beatboxing in the background.

Mrs. Harter loved it and wanted to call up the local news station to put us on the news. Of course we were mortified at the idea, and hugely relieved when that never happened.

In any case, though, in the same way that DARE might have worked for me, because I never got into drugs, maybe this pollution rap had some sort of permanent effect on my priorities. I care about the Earth a lot, y’all! And I want to do whatever I can to help a sista out. Unfortunately I’ve been going about my business with not enough information. For example, the whole time I’ve lived in LA I’ve been wondering what to put in my recycling bin. Plastics coded #1 and 2 only? Aluminum foil? Stray cats? I’ve heard various information from various sources about what the city will recycle, and rather than finding out for sure, I just sort of guessed. But just now I remembered to look it up… after 5.5 years… and I found these helpful links, which I shall now share with you! It turns out we can recycle a lot more than I thought. Yay!

I’ve included links to recycling guides for LA, We-Ho, and Santa Monica. I found this by Googling “recycling los angeles,” so if you insert your city, I imagine you’ll find something similar.

Los Angeles
West Hollywood
Santa Monica - single family houses
Santa Monica - multiple family buildings

Happy recycling to you, and, um… just say no to drugs.

I was playing the guitar just now and noticing how my left pinky, when not in use, curls up into a gimpy little ball, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And it made me remember one time a year or so ago when I was playing the guitar for a boy I liked, and I’m all nervous and sweaty-palmed like, “This is it, I’d better be good so he’ll keep liking me and think I’m awesome,” and then I’m thinking, “Wow, this sounds really good; go me!” and I noticed that he was watching my hands and figured he was impressed by my fancy fingerwork and was probably falling in love with me because of it. But instead when I finished the song, all he said was, “Wow, you have really long fingers.” And suddenly instead of feeling proud I just felt embarrassed, because all along he’d just been sitting there mesmerized yet horrified by the car accident that was my comically long Jafar fingers: fingers that probably gave him nightmares at night; fingers that are attached to giant hands made more ridiculous by their juxtaposition with my teeny tiny wrists.

So I was thinking about that just now, and then I remembered a time long before, when I was in high school and visited a new friend’s house for the first time. The minute I stepped onto the big, sweeping porch (we’ll call it a “vast veranda” for effect), I was already feeling insecure, wishing he had never seen my little plain-jane house. He took me on a grand tour of the premises, ending at his room, which was pretty much a tower, with windows lining the walls on three full sides. It was stunning, but when he asked what I thought, all I could manage was a nonchalant “It’s nice,” like, “Whatever, I am sooooo not impressed; I eat houses like this in my cereal with sliced bananas as part of my complete breakfast.”

My point is, and I know we all know this; we’ve all heard it a thousand times, but for some reason it just now finally clicked with me: Insults stem from insecurity most of the time. Insecurity because the insulter is threatened by the insultee, because something the insultee has or is doing is better. It’s so much better that it’s scary to the insulter. So it must be pretty good. And that means that when someone is insulting me, it might mean I’m on the right track. It might be a sign that I should just keep going, keep doing what I’m doing, but more so.

I’m sure you’re like, “Um, Really, Marcy, you’re just now figuring this out? Duh, this is the most obvious fact in the universe.” Well, yeah, I don’t know, suddenly it just makes a lot of sense because I have practical things to apply it to. In any case, I finally get it, and I think this knowledge is going to help me a lot. And if it doesn’t, that’s cool, too; I’ll just find a genie and wish to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world! Mwahahahaha!

I’ve lived in LA for 5 1/2 years, and pretty much the whole time I’ve been here I’ve sung its praises. I love LA! I know I still do somewhere in here, but this summer, for the first time, I am ovah it. I want to get out of here. There are 2 reasons I can think of why my attitude might suddenly have changed:

1. I quit my office job. (Yayayayay! After 5 years straight of being office girl, for the last month and a half I have been unemployed girl, and it’s been a wonderful break, although I’m starting to get a little antsy). So anyway, maybe I always have to find something to be discontented about. Now that I can no longer be tired of my job, maybe the only thing to be tired of is the city. Maybe? I don’t know.

2. Um, I totally just blanked on the second reason! It’s coming, I know… OH, yes, here we go: I haven’t been on a long vacation since Jep was a pup, or since you were knee high to a grasshopper. The last place I went, other than home to North Carolina for Christmas, was to Mexico for 5-ish days last October for my friend American Virginia’s wedding. That was wonderful, but I don’t think I was away long enough to fully recharge.

3. (I just thought of a third). The SMOG, you guys, is totally out of control this summer. My chest has been burning for months, and I got a cold for the first time in at least 3 years, and I’m convinced it’s because the smog caused a bunch of goop to build up in my lungs and sinuses, which made an ideal home for the cold virus to lodge on its vacation in my body. See? Even the cold virus is traveling! Shouldn’t I?

So… now that I’m unemployed and untethered, Operation Travel shall commence! The bad news for me is that I don’t have a great deal of money (see #1), so going anywhere far, far away or for a long time is out of the question. My weeks-long tour of Japan, hiking in the Andes, and skiing in New Zealand will have to wait a little longer. Instead I’m going to New York next Wednesday for 6 days to perform with one of my improv groups in the Del Close Marathon, and most excitingly, I’m planning a trip to Seattle next month with my friend Elise. I’ve never been, and I’ve always wanted to, and right now the thought of rain makes me want to run around in circles with excitement. Just for something different, and for some clean, fresh air to breathe, and to be able to look out the window and actually see what’s there rather than know there is a beautiful landscape that I can’t see because it’s buried in haze.

P.S. The whole time I’ve been typing this, something on me smells good, and I can’t figure out what it is. My hands smell pretty good, but I don’t think that’s it… maybe it’s my deodorant? Oh, gosh, nope, definitely not that. Hmmm. I think it is my hands, actually. But I don’t know why! Neither my soap nor my lotion smells like that. Maybe it’s a combination that chemically combined to create this new delicious aroma. Must be. OH! I just figured it out. I got home and my feet were filthy because I’d been wearing flip flops all day, so I washed them in the sink with this new bath gel I got (Alba Botanica honey mango) (mmmm). And I also got some of it on my hands, obviously. Mystery solved!

P.P.S. I realize this blentry is totally boring, but at least I wrote something, right? Right? mmm?