Watch out, this one’s a rambler. My brain is feeling a little scrambly, and words come out in whatever order it picks them, regardless of the laws of language or reason.
Limbo is a sucky place to live; we’re not living IN a cardboard box, but we are surrounded by them. Many are still collapsed, waiting to hear the final word from the board as to whether the last 3 months of paperwork, blood, sweat, and tears were all for naught. Apparently, they were unimpressed with our last year’s income. Shocking. If only the real estate agent had TOLD us there was f***king board approval from the start (they told us the exact opposite, in fact) this would never have gotten so messy.
Kip, the Enchanted Cat is moving steadily along…rehearsals are becoming increasingly productive, and the cast is fantastic. I will never forgive Aaron for all the sight-gags he wrote into the script (sending me running all over Manhattan and searching on ebay looking for the most bizarre props.) Nor will I forgive him for casting me as the most cruelly, tongue-twistingly verbose character written since "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" went off the air. But after all the glue and the tooth-gnashing, we will have a super show, I’m sure. You all will be seeing bulletins about this in the very near future.
I’m super-excited about seeing my friend Emma this Saturday evening, and possibly MORE excited about meeting her cat. It’s the only fun I’m allowed to have outside of my house this month. For once, I’ll be drinking with people, instead of alone, out of the bottle (or flask or can), while stitching the trim on a pink puffy sleeve.
I’ve been to the gym twice in the past three weeks. I feel like a completely disgusting slob, and I have been eating like a pregnant yak gathering her winter fat.
I’m breaking out, and something (fleas?) has been biting my hands at night. We took all the bedding off and sent it to the wash; no bites for the last two days, so maybe that’s the end of them. For now. That doesn’t take care of our roach infestation, though. Ahh, tenement living.
Sometimes, many times, I wish I could just be the kind of person who has a job. And that job is also their career, more or less. I would go to work, say things like "hot enough for you?" and "TGIF, eh?" (and not with irony) and then go home to my cable TV, cook along with Rachel Ray, serve up a hearty meal to my husband, and spend my leisure time making scrapbooks. I’d be a hairdresser, I think. I like doing hair, and I’m pretty good at it. And my husband would be…let’s say…an office manager.
I wish. I wish. I wish I could be happy with that.
I wish I didn’t have this uncontrollable compulsion to be constantly creating, producing, doing, working, making. I wish I didn’t have to catch the flu in order to stop for half a day. I wish I could zone out, turn off, veg out. Without taking Nyquil, that is.
I wish I had a pony.
But then I would have to feed it.
I wish I had a pony with no stomach. And opposable thumbs. Who liked cleaning my apartment and killing roaches.
I warned you this was drivel. It’s your own fault for reading it.
