And I didn't even go to Ohio State

I've spent the past few weeks obsessing. Obsessing more than usual, I guess I should say.

There are a lot of things in my life to obsess about. Like what to get the 13 year old boy in my house (who replaced the utterly sweet boy who used to occupy the room upstairs - last door on the right) for Christmas.

Or I could obsess about the daily reports from my first grader's teacher providing play-by-play details on the lunchroom scuffle, the puddle-stomping recess, the rock-throwing incident, yada yada yada.

Or how in the hell I'm going to get my house adequately clean enough and my laundry pile respectably manageable enough for when my 83-year-old grandma comes to stay with us for Christmas.

But no. I've been obsessing with how to get tickets to the BCS National Championship game. (Gail, that's a football game that the Buckeyes -- the football team from Ohio State -- will be playing in on January 8.)

The game has been sold out for weeks. The cheapest seats are going for $1000 EACH.

So, you can see why I'm obsessing. After jumping through some major hoops, bending the rules, and making a deal on the life of my firstborn (that wasn't too bad since he's turned into that obnoxious, secretive kid upstairs), I was able to buy four tickets for face value through OSU's Faculty/Staff ticket lottery.

Sure, a little good-natured forgery may have been involved, and my husband may have to impersonate his 78-year-old stepfather once we get to Glendale, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, you know? I

didn't even go to Ohio State. My senior year of high school, I visited the campus and got a little overwhelmed with the place. I opted for a small, private school a little further (or is that farther, dammit) from home, where I could be involved in theatre and other activities.

But my husband did go to Ohio State. So did his brother. And his two sisters. And his four stepbrothers. His dad and step-dad were both professors, one of them Department Chair, graduation speaker, and honorary doctorate recipient.

I was born in Ohio and I grew up here. And there are a lot of people around like me. Buckeyes by default. That's good enough for me.

And on January 8 2007, I'm going to be in Glendale Arizona with my husband and my friend Jill cheering the team to another National Championship!

Not so funny

I have a new boss, and a new boss's boss. I have a new job, too - which has turned out to sorta suck - but the boss and the boss's boss are BOSS. (That means that I think they're both great; stay with me on my hip lingo, will you?)

The job is actually okay, for the most part. I'm in a bit of a "situation" with one of my team members, though. And considering the fact that there are only three of us on this particular team, I'm not doing so well. Exactly one third of my team hates me. That's not good.

Today I sent my boss and my boss boss an email, ranting about said situation. Okay, I didn't really rant so much. I mean, I didn't send the email In ALL CAPS, with NO PUNCTUATION say, like this:

YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT QUEEN BIOTCH SHE DOESN'T LISTEN TO ME SHE TALKS TO ME LIKE IM A FOUR YEAR OLD WHICH IS DEMEANING AND BELITTLING I DIDN'T BUST MY ASS TO GET MY MASTERS DEGREE TO BE TREATED LIKE A JUNIOR HIGH DROPOUT

No, I diplomatically explained why things weren't working out and tried to add a little humor to the end of the email (which only took me three hours to compose on company time, of course). I told them that I am incredulous at some of the things Queen Biotch has said to me and that I had been writing them all down and was considering sending them to Dilbert.

Which I thought was pretty funny. But I have a technical writer's sense of humor, and I realized that my boss and my boss's boss may not have known that was a joke. So, I added (That was a joke) to the end of the part about Dilbert.

But even I know that if you have to say, "That was a joke" it probably isn't a very funny joke.

I'll let you know how it goes.

The only good thing about this whole situation is that I work from home. My boss is in Atlanta, my boss's boss is in New Jersey, and Queen Biotch is in Chicago. I've never met any of them (in person, anyway).

Which is a good thing, because I attend most of our teleconferences and net meetings in the nude. (That was a joke.)

Hey Michigan!

Don't let the soft spoken man with the sweater vest fool ya; he can flat out coach the game of football.

Tada!

Hey! Nothing In Between has a new look!

Which admittedly, is sorta ridiculous for a blog by someone who rarely posts and whose posts -- when she does post -- are regularly mediocre.

(God, doesn't it just drive you nuts when people talk about themselves in the third person?)

Do you hear what I hear?

Today is November 6th. Halloween was just six days ago (I was a very cute Babe-raham Lincoln, by the way). It is a full 17 days until Thanksgiving day.

Yesterday I took my youngest boys to see a performance of Hansel and Gretel at the school where my friend Gail teaches theater. We had a great day together, enjoying a pretty fall day. The air had a perfect chill, the sunshine was golden, and the leaves were still clinging to the trees, displaying a rainbow of pretty fall colors. I just love this time of year!

After the show, we got into the car and turned on the radio. The magical spell of enjoying our fall day with Hansel and Gretel was broken by the unexpected aural assault of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."

My seven-year old said, "Gee, they're starting Christmas early this year." Yes, they are.

"They" have decided that it's time to flip the switch and declare to radio stations, retail stores, fast-food joints and elevator Muzak operators that the "season" has officially started. I mean, the very second after the last trick-or-treater left my porch, stores were adorned with holiday decorations, the radio started playing "Deck the Halls', and bearded-clad seasonal Santas reported for duty.

Election day is tomorrow. I'll vote for anyone who runs on a platform that includes not allowing anyone, anywhere, to play Christmas music prior to the day after Thanksgiving. Call it censorship if you want, but that shit needs some serious censoring.

They're skipping Thanksgiving. We instantly go from Halloween to Christmas! That just isn't right, on oh-so-many levels (one of them calling Halloween a "holiday", but whatever).

Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It's the holiday you don't buy presents -- because it isn't about presents. It's the holiday when everyone is supposed to take a few moments to be grateful for where they are (or aren't), for what they have (or don't have), and most important: for whom they love (or don't love).

And here's my favorite part: Thanksgiving is the holiday that actually encourages a sin: gluttony.

So BAH HUMBUG until November 24th.

Something new

Gail has always been a person in my life who pushes me to explore new things and to eagerly embrace things I would normally shun.

We spent some time together this past weekend; we normally don't get the chance to spend a lot of time together. We went to see a dance show called Anna and the Anadroids: The Robots' Dream Tour performed by Anatomical Scenario. Their program says that Anatomical Scenario is "a dance company based on the instinctual expression of human exaggeration". I'm not sure what that means.

From what I can tell, the performance was sort of a mix of experiemental theater, performance art, modern dance, and ballet - from what I can tell. But I can't say for sure.

Gail is sure the show had a deeply-rooted message about social consciousness and consumerism. I didn't really get that. Not even just a little bit. Heck, I was pretty much lost the entire show. But, it was enjoyable, and I suppose one can enjoy something without really "getting" it.

Anyway, we had a great time and we came out of the theater profoundly moved by the same things: how skinny those dancer's thighs were and how they could wear those itty-bitty costumes all night long without ever reaching up to pull their undies/leotards/tutus down over their butt cheeks.

Here, I'm returning your fork.

“We have no more right to put our discordant states of mind into the lives of those around us and rob them of their sunshine and brightness than we have to enter their houses and steal their silverware.” --Julia Moss Stern*

Today my friend Lisa (the lovely and charming Nurse Flinn from Cuckoo's Nest) sent me an email to ask if I was okay. She'd read my blog. It suddenly occurred to me that my past few postings have been just a skosh negative.

Huh.

See, I can be what some people consider sarcastic. What I think is sorta funny isn't always so hilarious to the next guy.

Like the Thermos bottle thing: I was in Goodwill for the gazillionth time (those damn victorian costumes!) and I saw a thermos just like the one I had in first grade. Except get this: the inside was plastic. I stood there in the middle of the Goodwill store on Indianola Avenue, marveling at the idea that the inside of Thermos bottles used to be glass.

I mean, I wasn't sad, or angry, or bitter about my horrifying Thermos accident. After all, I'm not one to go on about things. I'm not.

So, I'm sorry if I've been a bit of a downer. I just want you all (all two of you) to know that I'm actually singing sunshine and butterflies these days. Really, I am. It's just that I'm usually not one to go on about things. You know I'm not. Really.

How about this? The next time I steal your silverware, I promise to return it in a timely
manner and as shiny as the inside of a Thermos botttle. (As shiny as the inside of a Thermos bottle used to be. You know, back when the inside of a Thermos bottle was glass.)

*I have no idea who Julia Moss Stern is. Neither does Wikipedia.

Stuff

Stuff that's on my mind (in no particular order):

• Thermos bottles don't have glass/metal insides anymore; the inside of Thermos bottles is now plastic. I bet that nowadays a six year old could drop a thermos bottle (on the way to her first day in a new school after moving to a new town) and then at lunch time, when she opened the thermos, the tomato soup inside would still be okay and not filled with little pieces of glass. I bet.
• I need to get back on some sort of diet that does not include chocolate. That's going to be difficult.
• I probably need to delete my last post because almost every day I think about it and feel guilty. I log in with intentions of deleting, but I re-read it and convince myself that since it's all true it's really not that bad. After all, it's just what I'm feeling. Naturally, after not doing anything about it, I feel more guilt, which in turn, leads to chocolate.
• When your next-door-neighbors (whom you love) experience the worst tragedy one could ever imagine, there really is nothing you can say or do to help ease their heartache or to quell your own grief, quiet your sick stomach, or stop the nightmares from creeping in soon after you fall asleep. Rest in peace, Therese; may you rest peacefully in God's loving arms.
• I don't like it when people honk their horn at me when I'm in my car (for insignificant matters, such as not flooring my gas pedal the nanosecond after the light turns green). There is way too much horn honking going on these days. Cut it out.
• I want to audition for a show coming up, but after reading a Theatre Roundtable review left on the desk at ECP, I've convinced myself that everyone was right: I sucked in Cuckoo's Nest and my acting probably just sucks in general. Naturally, this leads to chocolate, so I'm too fat to audition anyway. End of story.
• I can't post photos to Blogger anymore.
• Everyone knows that you will impress your friends with your grammar skills if you can distinguish between "lie" and "lay". Confession: I have a Master of Science in English from a distinguished and reputable university, and I can't do it. My solution to this problem is to simply avoid any sentence that requires me to select either "lie" or "lay". This makes me feel like a fraud. I also have trouble with "further" vs. "farther", but alot of people do - so that one doesn't make me feel as bad.

I'm tired and cranky and I did 7th grade homework all night (I helped my son do 7th grade homework, but it's a fine line). You see, since I already went through 7th grade (thirty years or so ago); I'm not real hip to doing it over.

So you'll forgive this post's annoying self-indulgence?

It was either write all this stuff in my blog or open the one-pound bag of M&Ms hidden in the very back of my freezer.

A desk and a chair do not a set make

Yesterday I spent a really long time crafting one of my best posts ever. I polished it all up, added an appropriate smattering of humor, balanced the humor with a perfect compliment of sarcasm, then added a few heart wrenching details. I clicked "Publish Post".

That's when Internet Explorer displayed a new page -- outside of Blogger -- with an error message telling me "the web page you are trying to access cannot be found". Desperately, I clicked the "Back" button, only to be greeted with a completely empty Blogger "Create" screen. Arrrgggh.

So I'll try again, but this time my muse isn't with me -- so I can't guarantee you'll laugh and cry the way you would've had I been able to post yesterday's masterpiece. Story of my life.

Basically, here's the deal: I'm doing costumes for a show that opens next weekend. I agreed to do this gig way back in June when I was in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with Rene. I love to sew and I love Rene, and I wanted to support him with his next show. It is my observation that unless your show has a member of this particular theatre's highly exclusive "inner circle" in the cast, you may not receive as much support as you need. (Translation: you are hung out to dry like shit on a shingle.)

So I offered to do the costumes for Rene. Let me say that again: FOR RENE. Yeah, I love the theatre, and I love being part of the whole process, yada yada yada, but I wanted to do this FOR RENE.

Auditions were in August. Rene got sick a couple weeks later and ended up in the hospital. The assistant "director" and the stage manager took over. (Here's where, in yesterday's lost post, I said a whole bunch of sarcastic stuff that was pretty funny and sorta mean and I think THAT's why my post -- karma, you know -- ultimately got zapped; I dunno.)

After a few weeks of continuing without Rene, the stage manager bailed. 'Nuff said.

A couple of weeks ago, I took my youngest son (he's 3) to a rehearsal to get started on costumes -- take measurements, etc. The joy of doing the whole thing was pretty much gone for me since Rene is no longer involved, but I'm certainly not going to walk away from a commitment.

All I can tell you about that rehearsal is that when I left I got in the car, looked at my three-year-old and said, "They are so screwed."

Gail and I often tell a story that happened years ago when we started a theatre company. We love to tell the story of the night a cast member reeled off a whole list of reasons why the production we were working on just wasn't going to work. She ended her rather dramatic monologue with the fact that we didn't even have a proper stage, and proclaimed: "A desk and a chair do not a set make!"

So let me borrow from that experience and say:

An --

...inexperienced theatre enthusiast in charge of a group of well-meaning but unfocused individuals charged with producing a very deep psychological drama set in the victorian-era which requires sound effects technical effects and lighting which has yet to do a full runthrough with very little set no props a ridiculous budget and no support from the theatre where this prodcution is supposed to take place...

--does not a play make.

But the costumes ain't too shabby, considering I have been given NO BUDGET and my repeated attempts to contact the "inner circle" have been ignored. How the fuck am I supposed to come up with three days worth of Victorian-era costumes for six people with NO BUDGET? Don't get me started on that stupid "inner circle" of theirs. Just don't get me started.

Nine weeks of doing Cuckoo's Nest and NOT ONE PERSON FROM THAT THEATRE ever said a word to me. NOT ONE FUCKING WORD.

Okay, that' s out of my system. For today, anyway.

On to brighter news: Rene is much better and doing great. My oldest son's football team brought home its first victory this week: the Kilbourne Middle School Cougars are 1-2-2! I'm trying to talk my middle son into auditioning for Curtain's "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" (of my three , he's the actor) and my youngest has continued his success and has remained clean and dry for several weeks now -- giving up his diapers forever.

Did you know that you can make a great looking victorian-style petticoat out of a 99 cent valance from the thrift store? Woohoo!

Milestones

Last week was filled with milestones. Too many milestones, really, to grasp and savor any of them the way I wanted.

Two Fridays ago, a slew of us from Cuckoo's Nest went to see fellow cast members Sarah, Jai, and Marc in Pippin at LTOB. It was a really wonderful night. I had dinner with my dearest friend Gail and then we saw a great show. It was really fun to see the gang from Cuckoo's Nest and meet new friends from Pippin. I so enjoyed that evening.

Each of my boys reached a milestone last week: Tyler started Middle School, Parker went to 1st Grade, and Kevin decided it was finally time to give up diapers. (Thank God. I just figured out that since Tyler was six when Parker was born, and Parker was three when Kevin was born...I've had a child in diapers for approximately 10 of the past 13 years. )

In the midst of these milestones, another mother yearned to see her child reach milestones, too. She waited for her daughter to open her eyes, to speak, to move her toes. Rachel Berezinsky was shot last Tuesday evening - very close to my own home - and today she clings to life in intensive care. I haven't been able to shake the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach since it happened.

Then, on Saturday, we learned about Charles, who was with us just two Fridays ago at Pippin. Oh, Charles. We will remember you with such fondness and we will never forget your smile, your kind spirit, or your infectious laugh. Perhaps you too have reached a milestone. Peace to you, dear one. Peace to you.

My latest Girl Crush

I realize I'm way beyond the age when I (or anyone else) should refer to myself as a “girl”, so lets just get this out of the way: I get that fact, okay?

It's been a while since my last girl crush . Well, girl crush on a celebrity, anyway. It goes without saying that I'll always have a girl crush on my friend Gail. No question about it. Oh, and her friend Becky, too. Of course. If you know either of those women you know what I'm talkin' about.

Sometimes I'll mention my latest girl crush (which frequently changes) to my husband or one of my guy friends. Guys seem to like those discussions. It's so obvious. It's always the same: when I discuss a girl crush with a guy, the guy's eyes instantly glaze over and I realize right away it's because he is hearing really bad porn music in the back of his head. I just want to slap him across the face to pull him out of this state.

So let me say, guys: it's not that kind of thing. It's not a "Girls Gone Wild", girl-on-girl thing. A girl crush is when you know, meet, or see a woman "whose sense of style or brilliant achievements or personal charisma makes you kind of adore and worship her" (according to Grrl Genius, a girl crush expert).

Let's be clear: girl crushes are nonsexual. Guys: Did you get that? Turn off the porn music.

My husband has been teasing me for years about my crush on Queen Latifah. Whenever she's on TV he says “there's your girlfriend."

There's just something about Queen. She's gritty, she's strong, she's beautiful. And she was really, really good in Chicago.

I had a brief girl crush on Anne Heche (when she played that wacky character on Ally McBeal). Don't ask. These things are hard to explain.

I had a friend whom I once called my "best" friend. I'd had a crush on Lynn since we were in the second grade. I admired how incredibly smart she was, and I admired her long auburn hair - always braided in two perfect braids and always secured with two perfect white ribbons.

As we grew, part of what attracted me to Lynn was that her life just seemed perfect. Her parents were perfect. Her grades were perfect. She lived in a perfect house and always had perfect clothes and perfect boyfriends. I admired all of that.

I'm not sure what Lynn liked about me. My life was so different from hers. I didn't have perfect grades or perfect clothes, and I certainly didn't have a perfect life. But I always made her laugh.

Lynn and I stayed best friends through college, weddings, children.

Ten years ago, my brother Allen died. Lynn was at a loss as to what to do, what to say. I understood. Nothing so horrifying had ever happened in her perfect life. We never talked about Allen, his cancer, or how much I missed him.

I realize now that was the beginning of the end of our friendship.

A couple of years later, when my sister Linda was killed in a car accident, Lynn simply pretended it didn't happen. She didn't call. She didn't send a note. I shouldn't have been so surprised, or so hurt. I should have known that the friendship was partly based on us both having happy, perfect lives. When my life got a bit rocky (and I just couldn't make her laugh), I guess she couldn't bear to be around me.

Geez. I just buzz-killed my own post, didn't I? I didn't mean to.

Yeah, my experience with Lynn was regrettable, and losing my brother and sister nothing short of heartbreaking.

But I was talking about girl crushes, and I can't finish without mentioning what I intended to talk about in the first place:

My latest girl crush.

Okay. So last weekend, while channel surfing, I came upon Pulp Fiction. At that moment, Uma Thurman and John Travolta were just pulling up to Jack Rabbit Slim's -- the exchange between Travolta and Uma (and the adorable dance segment that follows) is undeniably the best part of the movie.

There's just something about Uma, you know? And Uma in Pulp Fiction -- simply irresistible. And geez, remember Uma in Batman and Robin as Poison Ivy? Wowee!

Aw, come on...don't start with the porno music thing, guys. AmI gonna have to slap you across the face?

Thou Shalt Not Steal

Tonight a memory came to me so vividly I was clearly thrown off balance for a moment.

My middle son is six. As I put him to bed tonight, he held something in the palm of his hand, trying hard not to open his fingers so I could see it; hoping I wouldn't notice that he had something in his hand at all.

I asked him to put whatever it was he had in his hand on the nightstand. He reluctantly opened his six-year-old hand and out dropped a white poker chip. He looked at me and with pleading eyes -- eyes that revealed he knew I realized he was lying-- and in a very small voice said, "Robert gave it to me."

My oldest son's friend Robert is sleeping over tonight and Robert just happened to bring his "Texas Hold'em" poker set along.

As I stood there, my heartstrings stretched in several directions, I remembered what happened when I was six years old and got caught stealing a piece of Dubble Bubble from the grocery store.

My parents had just divorced. My dad convinced the judge that my mother was unfit to take care of my brother, my sister and me, and he was awarded full custody. After which he promptly took us to his father and stepmother's house, and then he left.

He moved out of state. He moved way out of state. Texas. The story was that he would come and get us after he found a place to live and got settled in his new job.

And got settled with his new wife (who hated other people's children).

So. My "children are to be seen and not heard" grandfather and step-grandmother raised my brother and sister and me (until my brother and sister ran away, but that's another story).

On the fateful day I committed the heist (the Dubble Bubble incident), I got caught in much the same way that my six-year-old did tonight with the poker chip. I had that piece of bubble gum in my hand, white-knuckles closed around it as if my life depended on it. And I wouldn't take my hand out of my coat pocket.

By the time we got to the car, my grandmother suspected that I had committed the crime. In her ever-so shrill and demeaning voice, she demanded that I take my hand out of my pocket and show her what was inside. When I did, she marched me back into the store and made me tell the grocer what I had done, apologize, and give the merchandise back.

When we got home, I was sent straight to my room and was not allowed to come out for the entire day. As punishment, I had to memorize the Ten Commandments. I can't imagine that was easy for a child of six, who didn't yet know how to read. And, I was introduced to my grandfather's belt. My sister, who was ten, made sure that I wore tights to church the next day so the bruises on my legs wouldn't show.

Tonight, as my son opened his hand and put that poker chip on the table, my eyes filled with tears. Not because my little angel stole something from our guest, not because he lied to me about it, and certainly not because I'm disappointed or ashamed that a child of mine would do such a thing.

I haven't thought of that Dubble Bubble story for a long time. When I remembered it -- in that moment between my son putting the chip on the table and looking up to say, "Robert gave it to me" -- tears of relief, tears of compassion, and tears of utter joy in knowing that I knew how to handle this situation -- filled my eyes.

Tomorrow morning, my son will give the chip to Robert and apologize. No banishment to his room. No Ten Commandments. And he'll certainly be able to wear shorts to camp tomorrow. You can bet on that.

Good God! What were these people thinking? Now that I have three children of my own I can't believe some of the things my grandparents did in raising me. What the hell? For Christ's sake!

You know, there are a lot of things people do for Christ's sake, that have nothing to do with Christ's sake at all.

Hey

I'm "recovering" after the whole One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest thing.

I'm not one to go on about things ... really, I'm not. But I guess it's taken me a while to get my world back into some semblance of order.

After all, six weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of production made for nine hectic weeks around here. My kids were out of control, my house was a wreck, my husband was needy (okay, needier is probably a better word).

Since Cuckoo's Nest closed, we bought a new car. Went to the beach. I got a new job (same company but I got a promotion and a raise, AND I can work from home all the time if I want, or just whenever I want). So I've been busy, even though right after the show closed I felt like I had so much free time.

Doing that show sorta opened up my eyes a bit, on several levels.

• I realized how much I missed the theatre all these years.
• I realized how hard it was for me to balance career, motherhood (and all that jazz), with 5-night a week rehearsals, learning lines, etc. (AND going out after rehearsals, too, of course).
• I realized it's okay to order pizza for your family once a week (as you're rushing out the door to rehearsal), but twice a week might be pushing it.
• I realized that people can be pretty darn judgemental about who they think your character should be and how they think you should play her.
• I realized I didn't/don't care who people thought my chracter should be or how they thought I should play her.
• I realized there are some pretty cool people in the theatre.

Enough of that. After all, I'm not one to go on about things. Really, I'm not.

But while I'm in this mushy state of mind, I might as well bring up a poem that I had completely forgotten about...I learned it years ago in college, when doing a show called, "And the subject is...love." Get this: the whole show was about love. The subject of the show was love. Really clever title.

Anyway, it was sort of a poetry / theatre / performance thing -- a reader's theatre-ish thing. There was a poem by Carl Sandburg that I did an interpretation of that the show was sort of built around:

Little Word, Little White Bird

Love is a little white bird
and the flight of it so fast
you can't see it
and you know it's there
only by the faint whirr of its wings
and the hush song coming so low to your ears
you fear it might be silence
and you listen keen
and you listen long
and you know it's more than silence
for you get the hush song so lovely
it hurts and cuts into your heart
and what you want
is to give more than you can get
and you'd like to write it
but it can't be written
and you'd like to sing it
but you don't dare try
because the little white bird sings it better than you can
so you listen
and while you listen you pray
and one day it's as though
a great slow wind had washed you clean and strong
inside and out
and another day it's as though you had gone to sleep
in an early afternoon sunfall and your sleeping heart
dumb and cold as a round polished stone,
and the little white bird's hush song
telling you nothing can harm you,
the days to come can weave in and weave out
and spin their fabrics and designs for you
and nothing can harm you

I don't know what made me think of that poem the other day. I went back and found my script and remembered how much I loved Sandburg's words...I remember how much I loved doing the interp of that poem.

I'm not sure what that poem meant to me back then, but I'm pretty sure I didn't understand it the way I understand it now.

Good night.

Monday, Monday

Ah. The Monday after.

Yesterday I deleted all my blog entries. I didn't even think about it much, just sat down at my computer and started deleting.

Cuckoo's Nest is over. I suppose it felt right to just leave that little slice of my life inside me -- and not let the blog define the experience now that it's finished.

I dunno. I do know that I hate Mondays, and I especially hate Monday mornings after the close of a show.

Sarah, I feel like a teacup, a plastic dollar store cup, and a mug, all at once.