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 theater 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 replied 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 farts with relief.
And I go back to my blog.
~D
