Sigh

Three of Walmart’s finest ran into my cart in one trip and Iowa-timidated ME into saying Ope and I’m sorry but that’s just an egregious abuse of first-caucus-in-the-nation power.

Also: furnace filters + lightbulbs + non-slip rug pads + cat food-to-poop supplies = a sad, sad afternoon of quiet-desperation adulting

4 days till #Hallowmeme!

We’re priming and painting one side of my sister’s house every fall.

I’m doing prime work and one hell of a job. One is a prime number. Or at least it should be.

You do the math.

Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

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 throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

2.13 miles. 12:00 pace. 3.00 runners.

The New Yorker + punctuation + mothers + education + gay stuff + manufactured holidays = THE PERFECT MOTHER’S (in my case) DAY POST!

los·er /ˈlo͞ozər/ (noun):

a person or thing that loses or has lost something

Three Easter pies can become infinity Easter pies with enough mirrors

Leg Day always goes better

when you’re halfway done and you can already barely walk because you timed it just right and snagged the good quad machine that destroys all things good and holy in you except your encyclopedic knowledge of Sondheim trivia and your will to live with under 100 pairs of super-cute shoes.

Also: Pink + Provincetown + muscle-cut + T-shirt is code for gay + gay + gay + T-shirt.

I thought I had a six-hour rehearsal for 9 to 5 yesterday and then a six-hour rehearsal today

But now that it’s all said (sung?) and done and I’m double-checking my math, it was six hours yesterday and a mere four hours today. My bad.

The show is really going to be spectacular. And exhausting. If my tired old ass can even keep up. And after this weekend’s (mere) ten collective hours of rehearsals, I’m dead. But it’s a happy dead.

Poor Deplorable Diane

She’s neither almost halfway to understanding math nor almost halfway to writing sentences that represent rudimentary American English. She should really go back to her country so we can build a wall to keep her kind out.

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.

MOUSEDAMNIT!

I was all emotionally prepared to just somehow get through today’s run and make it my last—and probably most painful—half marathon ever ... but I FREAKING LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT. And I ran the whole thing without stopping (except for water stations, which all runners get a pass on because running + drinking = spilling + wearing)—which is so huge to me that I’d maybe get choked up and cry if I had any moisture left in me.

SO PUT A 2020 GROUP DISNEY HALF MARATHON ON YOUR CALENDARS AND IN YOUR BUDGETS, RUNNER PEEPS. BECAUSE WE’RE GONNA ROCK IT TOGETHER! AND I’M NOT MOUSING AROUND.

Also: I have pictures! And funny things to post here that I thought up while I was running because what the hell else do you do for three hours with no distractions except the crap in your head? But I need a shower first. And 13.1 shovelfuls of food. And maybe a nap. I’m not sure yet whether or not I’ll post-race crash or post-race bounce off the walls. Stay tuned ...

Presidential Hillary's second debate with Snifflin' Don was two years ago tonight

Facebook just reminded me that I live-blogged the entire Eminent Capability vs Syphilitic Dumpster Fire Smackdown! in real time:

8:06 PM
Hillary didn't shake his hand. Probably because who knows where it's been.

8:12 PM
Locker-room talk --> ISIS. It's a logical progression.

8:16 PM
"It's just words." It's more like Mental Illness Theater.

8:38 PM
Hillary delivers a thoughtful, nuanced organized, detail-focused description of what is and isn't working in the ACA. Donald just repeats the word "disaster" and says he's going to do "something" about it. Oh, and that he has "plans." And that it's a "disaster." Sniff.

8:51 PM
"She just went 25 seconds over her time limit." And she stole my favorite toy. Waaaah. Sniff.

8:58 PM
"Carried interest." When did Trump learn an economy word? I just got a tiny (which is the opposite of "bigly") bit of respect for his math tutor.

9:04 PM
"I understand taxes better than anyone in this country." Then why do you use tax accountants? Compared to your stated genius, their ineptitude must be frustrating.

9:19 PM
Once again, Hillary is talking in thoughtfully nuanced paragraphs to answer the question about what she would do about the humanitarian crisis in Syria. Trump just calls her a "disaster" and has to be re-asked the question TWICE plus have the subject patiently explained to him by Martha Raddatz and he not only can't answer the question but he says he's never even talked about it with his running mate. HOLY SHIT.

9:22 PM
I'm chugging a shot of Trump Vodka every time he says "disaster." So far I've downed three bottles but it's such shitty vodka all it's done is make me have to pee.

9:31 PM
There are three people in my life I don't want to feel smarter than: my boss, my doctor and my president. I have an awesome boss, I have a brilliant doctor ... but I'm facing the prospect of having a syphilitic (sniff) psychopathic passive-aggressive imbecile in Mr. Pumpkin makeup as a president. Sniff.

9:46 PM
The question is in two parts, Donald: How to meet our energy needs and how to do it without damaging the environment. Your only answer is deregulation ... with a couple passive-aggressive jabs at Hillary. Oh, and speaking of Hillary, she efficiently answers both questions in a thoughtful, informed, articulated set of paragraphs.

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.

Just between you, me and this lamppost ...

1. The good news is my knee didn’t hurt.
2. Well, MOSTLY didn’t hurt.
3. But I found myself still in the habit of favoring it as I ran.
4. Which is a good way to get hurt.
6. I just accidentally typed 6 instead of 5.
7. But I’m too lazy to go back and fix it.
7. So I fixed it this way instead.
8. MATH!
9. So ... three miles ...
10. It was pretty rough.
11. And I mean rough as in it felt like I’ve never run a step in my life.
12. I wanted to stop the whole time.
13. Especially—ESPECIALLY!—at my two-mile wall.
14. Because I have a two-mile wall.
15. Most runners have a 20-mile wall.
16. I have that as well.
17. But nobody—NOBODY!—has a two-mile wall.
18. At least I’m pretty.
19. Right?
20. RIGHT?
21. Thankfully, Rob got up in the early darkness (dark earliness?) and ran with me.
22. I haven’t seen him since the NewBo half marathon almost three weeks ago.
23. So it was nice to catch up on all our disparate theater adventures.
24. Plus it was a great distraction from all those damn walls.
25. Scott selfishly did NOT join us.
26. Because of his kids, he said.
27. His kids whom I HAVE NEVER SEEN.
28. So I have my suspicions about this friendship.
29. We replaced him with this lamp post in our selfie.
30. Because he lights up our lives.
31. He gives us hope.
32. To carry on.
33. He lights up our days.
34. And fills our nights.
35. With.
37. Song.
38. It can’t be wrong.
39. When it feels so right.
40. ‘Cause he ...
42. He lights.
43. Up.
44. Our.
45. Lives.

This Mickey shirt has been the Virgil to my Dante on three Disney half marathons and more long training runs than I can count

And today is our longest run before the NewBo half in two weeks. I have one Gu for each four miles, so that adds up to lordhelpustwelve miles on yet another morning of perfect running weather.

M-I-C ...

Inching back to normal one quarter mile at a time

My clumsy myopic-camel-struggling-to-avoid-potholes-on-a-three-wheeled-skateboard new running gait that my PT showed me + two quarter-mile walk breaks + a refreshing rainstorm + the benevolent run-on-my-injured-hip’s-terms patience of Rob and Scott = THREE SAD LITTLE 12:18-MINUTE MILES, BABY! Plus only a bit of hip pain at the very end. Plus some extremely waterlogged clothes. Plus some sexy just-out-of-the-lap-pool-in-a-Speedo hair. Plus a triumphant selfie in front of Rob’s midlife-crisis Ford Edsel. Or whatever.

#HowToTurn50 #Ouch

I may have turned 50 on Wednesday but my car turned 80000 tonight, and that’s MORE

Cake I like

When your 50 and your a writer and you’re mom was an English teacher, she of course orders you a chalkboard birthday cake framed in homonyms and conjugations:

When your April birthday is in the middle of winter, your mom of course makes both tulip cookies and snowman cookies:

My mom—along with the rest of my family—totally gets me.

#HowToTurn50