Coffee talk

Had my first rehearsal last night.

I met Mike at a coffee shop near campus, and aside from a dude who refused to move his bare feet off the coffee table so I could get through to give Mike a hug and an Indian chick next to us having what I can only guess was cell phone sex - in the most babyish, Minnie Mouse voice EVER - it went very well.

As an ice breaker, I spilled water on Mikey's shorts.

Then, we spent some time going through the script and just as much time getting reacquainted and talking about motherhood, the very first Starbucks, healthcare, Venice, sex education, Hawaii, you name it.

Happy weekend, friends.

I didn't make it to the play.

Parker, living up to his reputation for tending to take things just a tad too far:




I mean, why break one arm when you can break TWO?

A Blast From the Past

Got an email from a theatre friend of long ago, whom I haven't seen in many years.

In 1990-ish we did a very cool show together at LTOB. Moonlight Daring Us To Go Insane was written by E. Eugene Baldwin (a friend of Rene's), and premiered at Chicago's Body Politic Theater in 1987. Rene talked LTOB into adding it to their 1989-90 season and the playwright even came from Chicago to see our production. (Geez, that sounded so "Waiting for Guffman"-ish.)

We had a great ensemble in that show. Rene directed, and the cast included (back row): Michael Schacherbauer, Di Felice, Don Roberts, Lisa Sharf, (middle row): Doug Shafer, Ed Meade, me, Mikey Day, John Falkenbach, (front row): Cyndi Meade, Linda May (oh, I miss Linda).

Moonlight was one of those great theatre experiences that you find difficult to explain to people later. All I know is that there were moments in that show. Rare moments when the actors and the audience disappeared together -- when the play was lost and there was just one single soul in all the world. At the risk of sounding a bit "emo" (stay with me on the hip lingo people), it was - magical.

Geez, I have a tendency to uh, get off track.

So.

My old friend from the show emailed me about a play he's directing and he asked me to be a part of it. Of course I'm thrilled. AND... at least two or three others from Moonlight are part of it, too - including Rene. It can't get better than this, I tell you! It just can't!

And I didn't have to audition, which is good. I used to go into an audition - any audition - and pull off a brilliant performance (even if I didn't really care about getting a role or even if every role in the show was completely wrong for me). And I never got nervous; not even just a wee bit nervous.

But after all these years away, I can't quite do that anymore. For Cuckoo's Nest my audition totally sucked; I know there had to be people wondering what the hell Rene was thinking when he cast me (shit, I was thinking that, too). And I've been to auditions here and there since then and I just cannot seem to keep my nerves intact and get my brain in sync with my body, heart, and soul. I sort of watch myself on stage as if I'm an audience member. I don't feel, I don't think, I don't experience a thing. I just stand there auditioning - detached - just watching myself and reciting lines. Ugh.

I'm off track again. Geez.

So, here's to old friends, new projects, and a respite from auditions!

I have a date with Gail tomorrow night; we're going out to Curtain to see our dear friend Tim B. in Lanford Wilson's Book of Days.

Life is good.

A nice way of saying...

When I started my blog I vowed I'd never ever post photos of my children, under the full realization that people usually don't find pictures of other people's no-neck monsters quite as adorable as the mothers of those no-neck monsters do.

Well, so much for personal integrity. What the hell.

I'm positng a couple photos of my middle son, Parker. He's seven. And he's killing me.

But, just look at him.

Parker is so much like me when I was his age: full of energy (that's a nice way of saying he's completely hyper), sensitive (that's a nice way of saying he's a bit dramatic), and always pushing, pushing, pushing everything to the limit (I suppose that's a nice way of saying he's a little shithead).

But geez, just look at that face...

Last week Parker had his first experience with what the principal called an "alternative learning environment" (which is a nice way of saying he was in "In School Suspension").

Yessirreee, my kid was sent to lockup in the principal's office for an entire day. First grade.

Apparently they don't take kindly to his fondness for throwing rocks on the playground. The kid's got a hell of an arm, what can I say?

What concerns me is not the fact that he threw a few rocks on the playground (he assures me it was all a big misunderstanding), but the fact that the kid is in the freakin' first grade and he's already done hard time. I mean, the kid's got got another eleven years until he graduates! What's next? Water balloons? Cutting class? Passing notes? Kissing behind the dumpster? Oy! Eleven years! He doesn't graduate until 2019!

(Which is a nice way of saying: I'm totally and completely screwed.)

A conversation that I overheard today (at Starbucks):

24-ish boy with awful, greasy hair and filthy, ill-fitting jeans: "I went to see a play at a community theatre last weekend. I find adult community theater, by nature, totally and completely depressing."
Girl of approximately same age wearing too much black eyeshadow and whose "shirt" was, I'm pretty sure, a bra: "Oh, God, I know. Everything about those community theatres makes me want to throw myself headfirst down a fire escape."
The boy: "Those people are always pathetic. Imagine their horrible lives."
The girl: "I know. It reminds me of this guy I work with who I can't stand. He's thirty, balding, hopelessly socially awkward, and also does adult community theater. The other day he was telling me about how he really needs to get serious about his acting career, despite the fact that he is constantly yelled at for being a really crappy worker in the produce department at a grocery store. He recently married a woman who could be his twin."
The boy: "People like that make me want to punch myself in the mouth, especially hard."

I laughed so hard I almost wet my pants.

I stuck around, nursing my coffee so I could hear some more. To my dismay, the pair started talking about organic vegetables, and I didn't find that topic nearly as humorous.

I watched them as they drove away in the boy's ramshackle Honda Civic. I looked for bumper stickers (it's something I do). I've found that any guy that young and opinionated has at least one bumper sticker to let the world know exactly how he feels about what is important to him.

I was delighted to see that the greasy-haired urchin had TWO bumper stickers. I had to knock a toddler out of the way and crook my neck a bit to get a clear view (my neck still hurts; I think the toddler is okay), but alas, I was able to read them perfectly. And, Oh. My. God.

I started laughing again, and this time I laughed so hard a little bit of overpriced coffee came right out of my nose.

And I'd like to thank...

I'm not one to go on about things (you know I'm not) but my blog-friend Jeremy over at Thwarting Complacency listed me as one of the "five blogs that make him think". He even presented me with a "Thinking Blogger" award! I'm speechless. In fact, I'm verklempt.

Here it is. You can hold it but be very careful (it's heavy):

Finally, I can steal my favorite Oscar acceptance line: "I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

This isn't some made up thing like one of those highway billboards that reads something like,"Voted the best beef jerky in the greater Boise area". (Voted by whom I want to know? And how many kinds of beef jerky does Boise have for God's sake?)

Now that I've been "tagged" -- (I refuse to admit that this is a "meme" of sorts -- I despise those darn things. I mean, who gives two shits what my favorite pizza toppings are or when was the last time I told a lie?) -- I am charged with coming up with my own list of "five blogs that make me think".

So, as Jeremy said, "without further ado or anymore guilding the lily"...

(and by the way Jeremy -- according to Word-Detective.com, to gild the lily is"to adorn or embellish something that is already beautiful or perfect; to attempt to improve something that cannot be improved, and thereby to risk spoiling it through excess." Uh, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.)

...here are the FIVE BLOGS THAT MAKE ME THINK (in no particular order):

1. Real Live Preacher - This blog is sometimes a sort of haven for me - a place I go for comfort, for understanding, for healing, for a good laugh. I always get those things; often I get much more. Though I don't consider myself "religious", I am spiritual. And who can resist a preacher who sometimes uses the terms "fuck" and "shit" and writes stuff like this in his blog:

"If you want to write you must have faith in yourself. Faith enough to believe that if a thing is true about you, it is likely true about many people. And if you can have faith in your integrity and your motives, then you can write about yourself without fear."

2. Chick Truths - The tag line says it all: "The world view of a woman with unrealistic expectations."

3. Post Secret - Just try to look at this blog and tell me if you don't find yourself thinking deeply about stuff you never even knew you cared about.

4. Maybe a Letter - My friend Gail's blog entries are beautiful and quietly thought-provoking. I wish she would write more often.

5. Thwarting Complacency -- Although Lizza already "tagged" Jeremy, I can't imagine making this list and not including his blog. Exceptional, on several levels.

So there they are! If, and only if, you've been tagged, write a post with links to five blogs that make YOU think, thenink to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

Good night, dear friends. I do hope I make you think. I hope I make you smile. I hope I make you feel.

All I know is that I write because I'm afraid to say some things out loud.

It's a jungle out there

My friend Nancy's husband just lost his job. He's been scouring classified ads, job listings, Monster, and anywhere else he can think to look.

Here' s an actual listing he found:

Position: Eligibility/Referral Specialist 2
Agency: Licking County Department of Job & Family Services
......
Qualifications include regular and punctual attendance in order to perform required duties/tasks in a timely manner; may be exposed to hostile clients/individuals; and, may be exposed to infectious clients/diseases and environment.

Yikes! The hostile clients and the infectious diseases ain't so bad, but good God! Requiring regular and punctual attendance is absolutely unreasonable.

Needlepoint Truths

Tonight there was a benefit for Mike, a former student of Gail's who is battling cancer. Just a few blocks away, we attended a surprise birthday party for my husband's step-brother.

In many ways, I'm sure the two parties were similar -- rooms filled with family and friends putting their arms around a loved one and celebrating his life.

Today was also my own brother's birthday. Had cancer not taken Allen's life eleven years ago, it would have been his 51st birthday. Though he's been gone all these years, I still celebrate his life. Allen was funny. He was a great artist, and he was loyal and loving to a fault. I miss him.

For Allen, for Mike, for my mom, and for anyone whose life cancer has touched, this simple little needlepoint says it all.

Blogging Can Be Embarrassing

Today a friend asked me how my day was and I found myself telling her all about a funny post from a blog I regularly read. I’m not used to having friendships with people I’ve never met.

Whenever I tell a flesh-friend (especially a non-blogging flesh-friend) something about a blog-friend, in the course of the conversation I inevitably have to admit that I don’t actually know the person I'm talking about [clear throat].

Me: You should read Dooce [or insert any silly-sounding blog name].
Friend: Who?
Me: Oh, Dooce.
Friend: Is that her real name?
Me: No, that's her blog name. I have a lot in common with her. And she's got such a poetic soul.
Friend: Hmm.
Me: You totally have to go read Dooce ! You’ll love her!
Friend: Awkward pause. Do you know her?
Me: Um…no. But you’ll love her...blushing now...she’s really great.

Oh well.

I joined a book club organized by my flesh-friend Gail, with a bunch of her school-teacher friends. Gail and Connie are the only gals I know in the group, so it'll be fun. This month's book is "Good Girls Gone Bad" by Jillian Medoff. My husband is worried.

I read the script of a play I'm thinking of auditioning for. I dunno. I'm too old to play the young women's roles and I'm WAY TOO YOUNG for the older women's roles, so I'm waffling. Gail and I both want to audition, and that would be a really great thing. We'll see. It might be difficult for both of us to "break in" to this particular production company together. But if we could...geez.

Well, gotta run. I need to check on my good friend All the World's A Stage . You'll love All the World's A Stage ... she's... really... great.

Schadenfreude Rules

It's February. And it's cold. Really, really cold. My two oldest boys went back to school today after three colder than cold "snow days" off. As hard as it was being pent up in my teeny-tiny house for three straight days with three young boys (I kept the little one home from daycare even though it was open; I'm a martyr), man do I pity those poor teachers today.

Well, part of me pities those poor teachers; part of me is filled with an odd sense of schadenfreude. That's just how I roll.

On Super Bowl Sunday I headed out in the cold to pick my middle son up from a birthday party. I stopped at Speedway to get a cup of coffee, and someone asked the clerk if he was going to miss the game or if he could listen to it on the radio. He quickly replied, "No, I'm taping the game at home and nobody better tell me anything about it before I watch that tape."

The clerk's response reminded me of a show I was in years ago at LTOB in Grove City. We were doing "The House of Blue Leaves", and tech week started on Super Bowl Sunday during the game. A couple of cast members brought transistor radios so they could keep track of the score.

But one member of the crew, "Bob" (not his real name), was adamant about not knowing anything about the game. He was taping it at home and made it clear that he did not want to know anything that was happening. He was sort of irrational and belligerent about it, and I remember being surprised at that, because I thought I knew Bob pretty well and this behavior was something I hadn't seen before.

Back then, I was not at all into football, and on that night I'm sure I didn't even know which two teams were playing. I remember thinking how silly Bob was being, and I remember how surprised I was that Bob was being so unreasonable. Several times during the night, when someone would start to report the score, Bob would curse and storm away from the immediate area so he wouldn't hear.

I was playing Bunny in the show, and at the time it was sort of a typecast role for me so I was really having fun with it. I mean, I got to wear a leopard miniskirt and dance on top of a piano. And the best part is that I looked GOOD in that miniskirt. Damn.

Anyway, I hadn't a care in the world...I was recently engaged, had a lead role in a great show with my favorite director, and it was finally tech week. All was right with the world.

But as the night wore on (as tech rehearsals tend to do) the tension mounted over Bob's impatience with missing the Super Bowl and the rest of us trying to keep any details about the game a secret. The entire cast and crew was walking on eggshells.

At last, rehearsal was over. It was late. After the director gave notes, it was finally time to head home.

This is where the story gets fuzzy, but someone (and for the life of me I can't remember who -- I'd kill to remember who it was) stopped by the theatre to see if we were still there and if anyone was going out.

Whoever the guy was wasn't hip to the fact that we had spent the evening tiptoeing around Bob, desperately trying to keep from mentioning anything about the Super Bowl lest our normally mild-mannered friend pull out a homemade machine gun and let us all have it.

It sort of happened in slow motion. The mystery dude (damn, I wish I could remember) just walked into the theatre, stood in the doorway at the back of the house, and announced the outcome of the game. Just like that. Most of us were still sitting in the front rows after notes, and I can still remember turning around to look up into the booth, where Bob stood peering down.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, like some sort of caged animal, Bob let out a string of obscenities that I swear would embarrass Andrew Dice Clay. Then, he oh-so-quietly grabbed his coat, put on his hat and silently walked out of the theatre.

And one perfect theatre-beat later, I burst out laughing. Schadenfreude rules, man. That's just how I roll.

Well, crap.

This whole thing maybe could have gone a little better.

2006

Geez, 2006 went fast.

A lot of things happened this year that were sort of a "coming out" for me. Not THAT kind of coming out; I'm still in love with Matt Damon, thank you (but I still have that not-so-secret girl crush on Queen Latifah).

Get your mind out of the gutter, guys.

By "coming out" I meant that I sort of turned off the road I'd been traveling on in a sort of hypnotized state for years. Years of being wife, mother, employee, student. All of that still remains (except for the student part -- woohoo), but in 2006 I started looking at things differently. Four things this year made that happen:

• I finished my master's degree...something I started as a "just for me" project that became more important to me than even I would I have thought.
  
• A close friend became an even closer friend. From that I learned, I lost, and I am left sincerely blessed.
  
• I went back to the theatre, and it was wonderful and horrifying at the same time. I look back on the experience with happiness, with regret, with love for new friends, with longing for another chance, and often with embarrassment for not getting it just right. Thank you Rene, for giving me a chance.
  
  And thank you too, Cuckoo's Nest friends. I went in to the experience knowing almost noone and came away with more than a dozen new friends! Thank you for your patience, your understanding, and your support in what was the most difficult role I've ever attempted. Thank you. And I especially thank you, Tim Patrick, for making RP McMurphy so damned easy to hate. And so damned easy to love.
  
• I started this blog, which I thought would be a fun way to chronicle the Cuckoo's Nest experience. And I did chronicle it. I chronicled it so well that immediately after the show closed I deleted every last word. Leaving those posts open for all to see felt sort of like being forced to show the world my private mirror -- the one that shows only imperfections and flaws (all the things I've learned to hide by wearing black pants and a cute top).

I have many goals for 2007 -- I hate "resolutions" so I call them goals, instead.

Anyway, one of them is to do another show...IF the stars line up and it all seems right. Right director. Right timing. Right cast. Oh yeah, and right role. My fingers are crossed.

But for now dear friends, take care and happy new year! See you soon.

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.