Easter table carnage

On this holy and widely celebrated National Grammar Day,

let us pause—using the punctuation of our choice—to give thanks that the holiday’s name has been shortened from the National Violent, Racist Grammar Day that was established in the bygone era of this venerable childhood grammar primer that up with which my mom grew.

ELF PROP TABLE HORRORS

The only props the elves use in Santa’s workshop are adorable little stuffed bears and MASSIVE WOODEN HAMMERS.

You do the math.

Decorating the Christmas tree:

The annual convergence of the totally cool garland of Norwegian flags and the totally creepy pantyhose-head elf with a disturbingly short caftan, yellow throat-choking oven mitts and no discernible pants. Because nothing personifies the joy and wonder of Christmas like a freeballin' elf with pantyhose obscuring his murderous clown face and unfettered access to the kitchen knives while we sleep.

I’m having a delightful reunion weekend with my awesome old (WHEN DID WE ALL GET SO DAMN OLD?) friends,

but let’s take a moment to contemplate the (please vote: [] awesomeness, [] whatever the can’t-tear-your-eyes-away-trainwreck-polar-opposite of awesomeness is) of this painting in our Airbnb living room:

Backstage at My Fair Lady!

So each week our costumes get washed and pressed and hung in our dressing areas—except our socks, which get paired and balled and put in this Communal Bin Of Delightful-Smelling Clean Socks for us to dig through every Clean Sock Day to find the delightful-smelling clean socks that are best psychographically matched to our individual characters.

I usually get here early on Clean Sock Day—as I did tonight—which affords me early pickin’s from the Communal Bin Of Delightful-Smelling Clean Socks—which I, to my present horror, totally forgot to do tonight. Because there were free tacos in the green room. SO CAN YOU BLAME ME?

FREE. TACOS.

Anyway, I didn’t even think about visiting the Communal Bin Of Delightful-Smelling Clean Socks tonight until I was tending to my foot apparel 15 minutes before our curtain. And to my eternally scarring horror, ALL THAT WERE LEFT IN THE BIN WERE SHEER-ISH, LIGHTWEIGHT, NOT-UN-PANTYHOSE-LIKE, DISTURBINGLY BREEZY LADY SOCKS.

LA. DY. SOCKS. SSSSSSSSSS. S.

So I’ve been condemned to try being SHIT-KICKIN’ MACHO as I gavotted through my deliciously florid musical all night when I secretly feel SILKY AND SEXY in my FEET and ANKLES and CALVES and did I mention ANKLES and OH MY GOD I’M FEELING SO DELICIOUSLY SAUCY RIGHT NOW DRAW ME LIKE YOUR FRENCH GIRLS DRAW ME DRAW ME DRAW ME!

Plus wispy socks = slip-slidin’ in my shoes. WHICH IS WEIRD AND DISCONCERTING.

AND DELICIOUSLY SAUCY.

Plus—PLUS!—once you and your character psychographically match yourselves to a pair of delightful-smelling clean socks from the Communal Bin Of Delightful-Smelling Clean Socks, YOU’RE STUCK WITH THOSE SOCKS UNTIL THE NEXT CLEAN SOCK DAY.

And since this is our final weekend of My Fair Lady, MY NEXT CLEAN SOCK DAY WON’T HAPPEN UNTIL ELF THE MUSICAL OPENS IN NOVEMBER.

NO. VEM. BER. SSSSSSSSS. S.

* * * * *

HORRIFYING ADDENDUM: I just accidentally caught the bouquet at the end of “I’m Getting Married in the Morning.” Though it’s always a toss-up (ahem) regarding who catches it onstage, it’s never been launched anywhere NEAR my general direction before. It’s like there was some mysterious force drawing it to me like a magnet. A SHEER-ISH, LIGHTWEIGHT, NOT-UN-PANTYHOSE-LIKE, DISTURBINGLY BREEZY MAGNET.

I am now and forever cursed with silken deliciousness. Which I guess might come in handy since my bouquet and I are getting married next.

You know how when you're lying in bed, relaxing your mind and body, and waiting to drift off to sleep

... when suddenly that one thing you did that one time years and years ago suddenly pops into your head and fills you with pulses of horror and embarrassment and then you end up lying awake for hours mortified by yourself and terrified that you're still being judged?

I still remember with piercing clarity the look of surprise and pain and disbelief on this client's face when I handed him a stack of presentation materials and somehow stabbed him--with blood! and that sickening feeling of grip when I pulled it out!--in the side of his hand with my freshly sharpened pencil. I still remember the stomach-dropping feeling of dread that that one little stab could result in massive financial carnage when this client sued us for negligence and dropped us as an agency.

And I ESPECIALLY remember the next half hour where I had to stand in my state of near-emesis in front our our bleeding, bandaged, possibly lead-poisoned client and his colleagues and MY supervisors as I presented a detailed, matrixed, multi-channel, almost-million-dollar campaign to everyone.

And Facebook not only brought it all back to me this morning, but reminded me that IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS.

Guess which two people in this horror movie just filed for divorce

#ElfShelfies

#ElfShelfies

Flashback Friday: Terrifying Halloween Costume Edition

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one kind of a gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. Big glasses + small bow tie = man who goes to the theater with his mom. Every time.

Fun fact: This is me in my dinner-plate glasses and pleated pants that were wider than the rest of my body in the lobby of the Kennedy Center when my mom and I went to D.C. to see Tyne Daly in Gypsy when I was in college. She got her kids out!

#TheImportanceOfProperFootwear

How did civilization not die out entirely in this era of procreation-repellent attire?

(Note: Shoes are sold separately on page 442.)
(Also note: When I posted this on Facebook, it did not recognize any of the faces in this photo as people in my friends list.)
(Also also note: WHEW.)