Tag Archives: visits

The One Where She Actually Goes Somewhere

6 Nov



This is kind of a big deal.

I just booked a flight.

…With money I don’t necessarily “have.”

…In that it “exists” but only in the literal sense.  It is actually like spoken for on behalf of bills and Christmas gifts and things.  But  talking to The BFF last night…after way too long of not, on account of schedules and general “life-getting-in-the-way” crap… I decided that I no longer cared.

…So this morning, I booked a nonstop flight to NOLA for a week in December.

…Because, as an adult, judging the need for wrapping paper, other-people gifts, and happy creditors…I choose “me” instead.

I am a selfish bastard. This is not new.   

What IS new is that I just sunk a lot of bucks (to me) to travel to the other part of the US, to be with my sister.  And ABOUT FUCKING TIME! 

…To ride a bicycle in 70 degree weather through the French Quarter, instead of wade through the rain, here. To sneak in all the secret night spot eateries and meet some four-star chef friends…to drink openly in the streets…tour all the theaters, see The BFF’s show.  To uphold our Christmas traditions of cookie-baking, five-course-meal-at-midnight-making, and drunken “White Christmas” sing-alongs.  

It isn’t really real yet…’cept only sorta.  It’s still that “hope” and “wish” and “intent” feel I’ve had for like two years now to actually DO the thing, instead of just TALK about it.  Only now, it’s actually happening.  I’ve got a mo-fo flight itinerary in my mailbox, yo!




Peace, y’all.


The BFF Comes Home

2 Jul


Night with the in-laws, The BFF & Fella.

…Home from her current stint in New Orleans, The BFF has flown in for a few days of play before she kidnaps the fella, perhaps for all of time.  Naturally, we plan on sucking so much joy out of the situation that only mummified carcasses remain at the end.  This should be totally doable as we have managed to achieve it every other time she’s visited from whatever new “abroad” has been her current place of residence.

…It’s like taking a full breath again, whenever she’s around.  A sudden realization I’ve been shallow with them all the other times, when she isn’t.

BFF’s are the sustenance of our lives. A necessary entity, who, from six miles to six hundred away, knows all your best and worst parts, and still loves you.  Even with them. Possibly despite them. Prob’ly because of them.

…Mine falls into that category.

…And I’m so damn shit-eatin’-grin happy to have her back here for all those reasons and more, that I won’t even think about the inevitable leaving and the taking of The Fella with her.

…Instead I choose to focus on the fact that The BFF is back, she’s breathing the same air as me, sleeping under the same sky…and tomorrow: we have a ditch-work lunch date, around two-ish. On the waterfront. Like Broads of leisure.

…With many more shenanigans to follow.

Welcome home, you crazy freak of nature. 

…I missed you, to grossness.


Caught, With Nothin’ But The Towel

22 May


So this has never ever happened before in the history of me:

Am minding my own business at work today, when from out of absolutely nowhere (and I do mean “nowhere”), Mrs. Johnson shows up with her usual bag of luggage, for her usual extended stay.

…Problem is, she was like six days early.


…And she is NEVER early. 

She’s never BEEN early. 

In fact, she has a widely known reputation for being late more often than even on time.

At all.

…But what is even MORE curious is that “stealth” has never been her major talent.  In fact, she blows at it.  She sorta travels with a full fucking brass band, (if you get my drift)…so pretty much everyone around has more than a general idea that she is about to show up in town.

One can frankly hear her coming from Duluth.

…And yet: there I was.  For the first time EVER: caught totally by surprise.

Of course, being a woman, I’m never TOTALLY without the necessities of life.  Not the essential ones, anyway…

…That it, until I realized that this early visit of was NOT going to be ushered in without the usual pain and agony, as well. Only, “delayed.”

…And I didn’t have any of the drugs that I needed…

…Although, a Migraine Advil was this close to being shot back anyway…

…Cuz even undercover, Mrs. Johnson is a gigantic pain.


…But emergency pills were obtained in time.

…And I took them.

…And now I’m trying to coax some appetite out with the old Jewish custom of mac-n-cheese and cheeto-puffs. 

(That is not really a Jewish custom, only it seems to work most of the time when nothing, but nothing, sounds good, and I just wanna roll into a ball and complain a lot.)

I don’t really have time for that right now.

…We have the final scene of the show to block tonight.

…Well, maybe just a “little” ball-rolling.

The annotated version.

(Which I am usually adamantly against.  In book form.  But in dealings with “pain,” I’m all for it.)

So I’ll go do a little of that now, then.

And afterwards: try and eat something so I don’t pass out.


Where’s my pillow?!

(stomp! stomp! stomp!)



15 May


Writing from the Farty Chair

…The “Importance of Being Earnest” soundtrack is in the background…cuz it’s fun, and strangely eclectic…purchased off Amazon MP3 app for the purpose of inspiring hair creations yesterday. 

The costumer requested I arrive with something quasi-styled so as to play with the hat placements during my fitting.

…The California Cousin and his lady have just vanished with Ma, back to her house, and I’ve time for a quick write-up before bed.

Random associations of the day, coming back to me.

…What to write about?

California Cousins grow up from kiddom, and become super interesting, intelligent human beings. Even in our family. 

…Had that one customer who talks to you like they were the dictator of a small third-world nation, whom you have just been annexed in with via “you work for me now” association.  I let them have their five minutes of glory…and by “let them have” I mean, “continuously reiterated the requirements for product prep with zero lee-way as to how much extra free work we were planning on doing for her.”  The call itself (I’ve been told) lasted another 48 minutes.  I wasn’t there at the time, as I had evilly put her on hold and passed her onto the WHS Pimp for “materials and hardware spec” info. 

It was mean. 

I know. 

…And he had even just bought me coffee and everything. 

…Which just shows you the kind of people we are, I suppose. I am the one who would buy or bribe their way onto the lifeboat, and He is the one who would probl’y go down with the ship, in honor of the “women and children” rule.

You know what, we’ve already discussed how he’s a better person than me, and I don’t think it’s kosher for you to just always bring it up, every time I do the tiniest slightly dickish thing!

…I prob’ly owe him some beer or something…

Cleaned house after work.

…Gave Daphne and Niles a much-needed bath, and cleaned up the kitchen.  New smelly thing plugged into the wall, accidentally set on ballistic level and left there to try and counteract the mass-chemical-cleaning smell. 

It worked. 

Sort of.

…Even though my nose hairs are still kinda tingling from the residual warring battle.

Windows all closed up since the last storm. 

Heater back on again.

A bit of a bummer, actually.

…Also, Harriet had just finally gotten all the bird poop washed off of her before it all began.  In keeping with every car-owner fate, ever.

Off book for the second tea scene. 

…Three more to go.

Rehearsal tomorrow and Friday, then off for the weekend.

…Must remember to buy more TP.

…And milk.

I may have had one 20 oz black coffee too many, today.  While it helped with the sheer exhaustion and general anxiety pit-of-despair I had worked myself into the evening before, I don’t think it’ll be so great at this particular point. 

…Or maybe I’ll be passed out within 50 seconds of my head hitting the pillow. 

…It is almost impossible to know.

I am, however, willing to undertake the experiment, and give it a shot.

Night, all.


Just So You Know, We’re Here

24 Dec


Ma n’ I escaped for a bit across the bridge to Silverdale yesterday…Harriet swimming along the roads while the wet spit down all along the way.

…The goal was a favorite antique store there, which is like almost none other you have seen, in that it is meticulously curated like a museum, with painstaking detail, in theme coordinated rooms that seem to stretch on into infinity. A perfect place to brows hours at a time, on a rainy day. 

Stepping through the double doors yesterday, a host of smiling faces turned to us, as apparently the shop was holding an Open House Holiday event, full of sing-along sheet music carols, a large round table of spiced cakes and breads and cookies, several silver samovars of hot teas and coffees, and in the front, by the cash register, a woman of anywhere between her mid-to-late sixties, playing on a baby grand piano.

…The atmos was perfect. Ma n’ I grinned, and wandered and sang along with the playing carols, listening to the little kid voices and the older ones joining in at large, over by the food tables.

So it went for upwards of an hour, the pianist taking a mini break somewhere near to then, as Ma n’ I reached the book room. Finding some especially enjoyable toys to rummage through there, we were still at it as the music began to play again. But this time it sounded different. The soft carols and retro Santa songs had been spiced up a bit with some pomp and circumstance, akin to throwing the notes at you with speed and furious purpose. And both Ma n’ I stopped for a second with — I swear to you — the same look on our faces, as I rounded the corner to look at her.

“Is it just me or doesn’t this sound all the world like Gram?” I asked with this shit-eatin’ grin on my face, to which Ma grinning equally hard started to giggle.

…Let it be known, that EVERY Christmas season, our family would gather ’round Gram and sing along as she would play on the big upright in the living room. And what must be noted about this is that Gram was never what one would call a “classically trained interpreter of music.” I think because she “felt” it too hard. Gram tended to play the piano like a person kneading a good yeast dough. She would basically beat the living shit out of it. Sure, she could have occasional moments of subtlety, but they were few and far in between…and they were also mostly only used for set-up. Like her favorite hymn of all time, “Let There Be Peace On Earth.”

…It used to crack us all up when she would play or rehearse that for Church services, because it would begin so wond’rous and and polite, with hope of better days to come, with less angst and hate in the world. But then all of a sudden, at about mid verse two, something would start to happen with the music. Every so many chords and the next would hit heavier than the others did…and then, there it would be again. Gram’s posture would alter, she’d lean into the keys a bit, until eventually her back and shoulders taunt with all the power she could muster, she would launch into the final chorus with the intensity of a Calvary charge…the whole freakin’ piano would sway with the effort, the knickknacks and pictures on it, quivering with fear for their lives, as this 130 pound woman would commence to beat the living shit out of the innocent instrument. Her intent was never a mystery, here…and the fury of it, if put into words, would be something along the lines of: “GodDAMN it! ALL you people need to just SHUT THE HELL UP, stop being assholes, and learn to LIVE TOGETHER, or I’m gonna kick ALL your asses!”

Subtlety wasn’t really Gram’s Hallmark.

…What was amazing, standing in that little room yesterday though, was the very specific noted alteration in the styles of the music’s playing. The soft, jolly version we had walked in on, and the post-break ferocity to follow. A very specific kind of ferocity too…one not easily replicated…with the absolutely perfect timing of just exactly where she would have placed it, with exactly the same amount of audacity and spank of the keys.

…Which only follows on the heels of a season this year where Ma n’ I have had an amazingly large number of such “coincidences” occur to us while we have been wandering streets and shops together this season. Everywhere we have turned this Holiday, we have been shown little reminders, at perfectly placed moments…mostly quiet and inauspicious things that could only mean something to us…which would occur or materialize suddenly in sight, just around a corner, on the next shelf, with the following radio song, waiting for our coffee order, milling down a street, going on a road trip, or wandering through an antique store.

…In fact this is the SECOND time within a week that an antique store has slapped us across the face with such an obvious homage in plain sight. A “coincidence” not to be lost in the fact that Gram and Gramp once used to own and run one for themselves…so has become a natural place we tend to pick up sticks of specific memories by the bunches. But these have not just been the average, “Oh look, they used to have this lantern in the kitchen, by the window seat…’member?” It’s been more like, “Um, was it just me, or did you just get this weird sort of feeling of –?” “–Yep.”

…Which coincides with my own personal theory that there are no “coincidences”…that everything happens for a reason (no doubt to raise a sizable debate in another blog), but even more specifically meaning that: It’s the Holiday season…a very huge deal in my family. Always has been always will be. And even when we are apart, we always figure out some way to get together in little pockets and groupings and phone calls to get as close to “being there” with one another as we can. And apparently, its really important for an uber gregarious pianist we are all related to, to let us know…as we move into the usual family tradition of Christmas Eve Smorgesbord today…that the “We’s” up there, are still very much here with us all…celebrating right along, just like they’ve always done.

And it makes me feel damn good to know it.

That’s all.

Happy Christmas Eve, everyone 🙂


For The Groundlings

15 Nov


Tonight is our Pay What You Can…a performance for those who aren’t of the easy spare-cash-crowd.

…A notoriously loud and appreciative audience, made up mostly of our poor friends, is usually what this means.  And we welcome them (and  you) all into the theatre tonight for some bawdy fun.  Laugh loudly, cat-call at will, and enjoy what our four reviews assure, are fine performances in a joyous romp of mistaken identities, love, revenge and hilarity.

Go us’s!

Meanwhile: Today, a slow one at work.  The WHS Pimp and I decided to take the opportunity of Boss being absent, to reorganize some things in the Warehouse and office.  New systems to be implemented soon, which will have the Bunnies in an uproar, as they are when any change takes place.  But with winter on the horizon, it’s time to tighten up the belts and condense things into ship-shape specifics.  This has everything to do with a rumored OTHER Corporate visit, supposedly taking place the last week of this month. So, it’s better we be prepared now and get everyone used to the new order of things…two weeks before their coming.


Last night paid a visit to Marty and Bruce as K.L. pulled his second 24hr duty in three days. 

…Much “Will & Grace” over Tai food eating taking place, with script read to prep a bit for Saturday’s callback before the show.

…Which will be an interesting day, as emotions go, thanks to the topic matter. With a buffer of one hour and fifteen minutes ‘tween the death, ruination and questionable lesbian crises involving two teachers at an all girls boarding school, that is “Children’s Hour,” and our call for “Twelfth Night.” 


…We can do that!

…We can do anything!

We…are “Actors!”

(Pass it around.)


Conflicting Schedules & Farty-Chairs

30 Sep


I have conflicting schedules today.  I think.  I’m not totally sure, because the latest updated rehearsal call email went MIA and I haven’t heard back from the SM as yet…which is perfectly understandable, as I just figured this out at around 1:30 A.M. when I sent her an email request for updates.  The woman was prob’ly sleeping, (and possibly still is) which, however logical, doesn’t help the fact that I may or may not have a call in 20 minutes, or according to the first schedule at 3:30…or according to “M,” (who was the only human conscious when I started freaking out), possibly 6 P.M.

…What I’m saying is: this is really important, cuz I also booked a movie premiere and theatre tickets for today.

…I kinda have to know, you guys.

Wait! A phone ping!

**later, after reading text, and sending others to the four corners of the globe**

…Alrighty then.  Collisions averted.

(It is at 6…in case you were wondering.)

…Geeze.  Now I need to go make another thing of coffee and defreak a bit.

…And maybe put my eyes in. 

Head’s already wrapped up and sealed in hot curlers so can’t do glasses, and I hate contacts first thing in the morning. Have elected to just go semi blind until now.  Hate how itchy my eyes get…even with the uber fancy Alka Selzer-like cleaning fluid that costs $15 per bottle and special drops to keep them extra hydrated.  It’s like my eyes don’t even WANT some foreign plastic disc hugging the breath out of them for 12 to 18 hours a day, non-stop.  As if they don’t even CARE when they cloud up, like your car windows on a cold morning, (which no amount of swiping, blinking or squeezing can undo), and I can’t see a goddamn thing.  My eyes are selfish assholes, really…when you get down to it.  Everything is all about them.  They’re tired, they’re itchy, they’re dry then strangely teary… 

…Meanwhile…have you ever tried putting all that under stage lights and baking it for two hours?  It doesn’t help the situation.  And neither does the occasional required crying. 

…Cuz when you’re in the middle of being strangled, with tears, sweat and snot running down your face (and 200 people watching), the last thing you wanna be thinking is: “Fuck.  My left contact just washed out.  HOLD EVERYTHING YOU GUYS! I gotta find it real quick…”

In Other News: I am writing this from my farty-chair, which is an amazing feat because I just now realized it…which means it finally “made it” as an official edition to my house. Until now, it’s been “that new foreign thing,” I had to work around and get used to.

…We all know how I hate change. That is by no means limited to major life events…it’s also inclusive with furnishings, habits, and routines in general. I first purchased the farty-chair about two weeks before Puff came up to visit, on the inclination that should we (for instance) both want to watch something on TV at the same time, there would be too many butts and not enough places to comfortably put them to achieve this. So, I bought this chair. I spent THREE HOURS re-arranging my living room, back and forth and back again, to find out where in the hell it would fit best…which was nowhere…because it was “new” and “different” and I never know what to DO with those kind of things…so finally just picked a place and PUT it there. Then I stared at it for a couple of days, like an alien had landed in my house and I didn’t know what to do with it. Well, I DID know, I just didn’t like the answer.

…I was gonna have to “bond” with it.

…So, I girded my loins and began the long and painful process of changing my daily routines and habits JUST to fit in the fucker. Every time my butt hit the mini-sofa, it would pop up again and have to go settle instead in the farty-chair. Every time I settled in with a book, or opened the laptop, I’d have to stop, get up, and relocate to the farty-chair. Everything became ABOUT the farty-chair. And the FACT it WAS a “farty-chair” didn’t help the situation. Every time you’d settle or move in the thing, it would omit a variety of groan-squees…which, because I was still trying to break it in and get comfortable in it, made every evening in front of the TV for two weeks sound like the after effects of a baked-beans eating contest. Just HIGHLY uncomfortable, and not right.

…But by the time Puff came, it had become a thing I could tolerate. I could be in the same room with it and not give it dirty looks and cuss at it’s every flatulence rip. I figured out how to replicate its sounds so that if a small movement happened to manufacture a mock-grossness, I could immediately echo it with movement, thus proving to the public at large that it was the chair that had gas problems, not me. And by the time Puff left that week, I actually had to remind myself a couple times that it was OK to default back to my sweet home base on the mini-couch once again. And did.

…And so, the farty-chair has remained now…mostly dormant. That is, until (for some reason) today. Today, I didn’t think about it. Today, I had multiple schedules in my head and a cup of coffee and laptop in hand. I settled in for a flush of manic emailing, and opened my blog, tucked in with a blanket and got to work.

…And then my coffee ran out. And I looked at the cup forlornly, there: on the side perch footstool-table, beside the…farty-chair? I’m in the farty-chair?!

…”Groan-squeeeeee, ” it replies with my sudden shift in seat of surprise.

“Huh.” I pat it on the armrest. It wags it’s tail.

“Welcome to the family, bub. Looks like you finally made it.”

It passes a gassy sigh of relief.

And I go back to my blog.


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