Wicked busy day at work…pushing $122,000 in new orders and bookings that had my butt stuck to my swivel chair for the full eight hours.
…Decided to counter this with a 4 mile walk through partial spit and sunshine by the waterfront, directly after errands run of bank and script pick up.
…Then I peed.
…Checked my texts which had accumulated throughout the day, totally ignored…(due to reasons they pay me for)…and I saw a set from Puff:
Puff: “Awesome news…I will be up for Pride through 4th of July…!”
…JOY!!! Because, now that am camped in HRC with the Seattle kids…AND signed up for the huge-as-fuck event committees LIKE Pride…I was only the other day saying how kick-ass it would be if he were here for my first one, and I was there for his (in Seattle), cuz (without being a giant cock-block), we could hang some, and have times of awesome with him and his boys (whom I love), ‘tween my booth tending, button passing, and picture taking.
…TIMES of AWESOME will be had. Indeed.
…Came home next, to find a gigantic box on my doorstep, weighing approximately half a pound. After perusing labels which told me nothing, finally came to my senses and just ripped the thing open. Arms waded through a sea of crumpled newspapers, reaching deep into the box’s guts to fish out: a giant globe on stand, and a card from an antique store in New Orleans.
…Texted The BFF, directly: “I presume was you who bought me the world…”
…The BFF texted back: “…It is your oyster after all.”
(This is why she is The BFF…reason # 562.)
…Wandered about house, attempting to find the perfect place for the world…and I found it: On top of record player by the complete Sherlock and choicest Du Mauriers.
…Winning. Or rather, “won.” “Winning” sounds better. I will just move everything into the present tense now. Because.
…Go about opening new script (role secured only just last night), and begin to peruse the merchandise. She’s good, the playwright. A local. Commence to take notes, pull up dialect and start working for a good ol’ Louisiana drawl…mid-texting The BFF, who is well into the religious ceremony of Margarita drinking that is: Cinco de Mayo.
…I say I’m too lazy to go to the trouble of “all that mixing,” so offer chilled champagne, (still sitting in the fridge from my woeful birthday), or a warm scotch, as substitute.
The BFF says, ” Definitely champagne. But maybe I’m biased. It’s 80 degrees here.”
I respond: “I think it’s still wise here at 60-something. Cuz I mean..it’s champagne…”
We agree she is right. This almost never happens. She (presumably) goes to mix another ‘Rita…I grab a bar towel, and pop the cork.
…I study some more…
…Mid-study I try to gauge the distinct difference between Creole, Cajun and general Louisianian dialects. Dunno which I’m suppose to use, so decide to learn all three.
…The Champagne goes largely untouched for some period of time, as I work. Then, as I fold up the script for now, I suddenly remember it.
Veuve Clicquot it ain’t, but it itches the scratch when yuh got it.
…I decide this would be an excellent marketing line, and I am totally in the wrong profession.
…I pour out some more.
…I drink it.
…I see the lap top sitting over there on the couch arm, plugged in and getting juiced.
…I decide maybe I should blog some. Then I can say I did a little study, a little writing, and a little walking with my evening…not just, “laid on the couch like a whore, swilling champagne and watching Burn Notice specials. Again.”
…Although, whatever sounds so bad about that, I’ll never know.
…You’d have to ask a non-actor civilian.
~D
