Old-man shoulder hair: gross

Primer: dry
Paint: grey
Hair: high
Shirt: really bad planning because it has no sleeves and it’s cold out and I’m freezing but with me every day’s a GUN SHOW
Gender: guy

We may like her feely-goody simpleton messages of love and positivity and even some of her good-sense policy proposals

But this woman who has called vaccinations "Draconian" and suggested that her god is more powerful than AIDS medications has now proposed that skipping-through-meadows happy wishful thinking can influence massive, apocalyptic hurricanes and is no more fit to be the leader of the free world than the massive, catastrophic shitshow we have now.

Please stop giving her agency and legitimizing her enough to appear to be a viable presidential candidate. She's equipped to be a LiveLaughLove spiritual book writer and nothing more.

With profound apologies to Florida

"wHy cAn'T wE Do tHaT?"

1. Because it's a stupidly dangerous idea
2. Because a nuclear bomb would need to be surrounded by tons of additional air that we have no way of moving on that scale to affect just the eye of a hurricane
3. Because a hurricane's tradewinds would spread the nuclear fallout on a far more massive scale over water and land and create catastrophic environmental devastation
4. Because the idea was first presented and quickly shot down in 1959 for these very reasons
5. BECAUSE A RUDIMENTARY GOOGLE SEARCH WOULD TELL YOU THIS FASTER THAN YOU COULD SPUTTER OUT THE DUMBASS GIBBERISH IN THIS QUOTE

When your hair is so on point that you need to drop everything and take a selfie

It’s just on the warm side of perfect running weather, my hair looks AH. MAY. ZING., I have a new(ish) pair of Hoka One Ones I’ve been wanting to run in, I feel confident that I can work up a sweat on my wrist without needing to have it wrapped so I can finally wear my running watch again, and I actually feel like running so I’d better go out and do it right the hell now before I back down so there’s no time to call Rob and Scott to join me.

I’ll see you all in 3 miles and 2 waist sizes!

Mistakes were made

I weirdly had neither a rehearsal nor a performance tonight, and as I walked to my car after work wondering what the hell it is you people with free time DO with your free time, I noticed that it was perfect running weather outside. Mistake 1. So I texted Scott and Rob to test the waters and see if they might be up for an impromptu evening run. Mistake 2. Rob, to his eternal credit, already had a theater commitment LIKE A NORMAL PERSON. But not only was Scott free, his response to my query was “what time?” And I texted back to tell him when I’d be home. Mistake 3.
Fast-forward a bunch more mistakes. We’re standing in my driveway, noticing that it’s WAY more humid than I’d thought. But we take off running, with me secure in the knowledge that I’ll have to phone a tailor when we’re done to have all my pants taken in because of all the inches that were destined to melt off of me after surprising my body with an impromptu Monday evening 3-mile run in cleansingly heavy humidity.

Fast forward one mile, when I completely run out of will to live.

Anyway, here’s a photo of Scott looking like a dewy lotus blossom and me looking like a hair clog from the drain of a New Deal-era public pool after trudging back from our not-three-mile run:

In slightly exciting news, it WAS my first serious exertion since my stupid mole removal and I didn’t split open and exsanguinate all over our pretty running trail. SMALL. VICTORIES.

“Places!”

“Thank you places!”

BEEEEEEEEP!

I’ve been wide awake for no useful reason since four o’stupid

I’m not supposed to exert myself for fear of ripping out my sutures, but it’s been six days and the massive gash in my wrist seems to be healing nicely (I have suitably gruesome photos of it if you want to start your day with a good splash of emesis) and I’m bored and restless and feeling fat from not exercising for a whole week AND WOULD IT REALLY CRIPPLE ME FOR LIFE IF I RAN THREE TEENSY LITTLE MILES IN THIS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER?

Also: Look at the weird stuff you can find on the Internet when you’re wide awake for no useful reason at four o’stupid.

Three-atre!

Tonight I had our first off-book line bash for Aurora AND our first rehearsal for Hello, Dolly! so I thought I’d go for the TCR trifecta and wear my King Triton shirt from The Little Mermaid.

Now I’m sweltering under a ceiling fan because OUR AIR CONDITIONER IS BROKEN AND NOBODY CAN COME FIX IT UNTIL FRIDAY KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW and I’m filled with Tylenol PM to dull the pain of my mole excision and hopefully get me some sleep. Please bring snow.

Last night the weather thingie on my phone promised me it would be a cool, comfortable 63° right now

But right now my phone tells me it’s actually a global-warmingy 66°.

I suppose next you’re going to tell me the Arbor Day Cow who frolicks through the cobbled suburban streets munching on squirrels and bringing all the attractive children immunity from smallpox isn’t real.

MY WHOLE LIFE IS A LIE.

The perfect storm:

• I have 90 minutes to do a 45-minute workout
• There’s nobody here to keep me focused, motivated, accountable and working out instead of playing on my phone
• I have a full battery
• And a super-cute T-shirt
• For selfies!
• It’s Friday and I’m not terribly motivated
• And by “not terribly motivated” I mean “Look! A phone!”
• For selfies!
• It’s so hot outside that we started measuring in Celsius so we don’t horrify the Europeans
• Heat makes me hot
• And sweaty
• And glisteny
• For selfies!
• I have to be at rehearsal in half an hour
• So there’s no time to start a new exercise
• But do you know what there IS time for?

Too darn

I’d like to sup with my baby today.
Refill the cup with my baby today.

Hurry up with your courtship, little flirty birdies!

A big storm’s a-comin’ and you’ll want to be makin’ your own thunder and lightning someplace where you won’t drown.

I had to use a high-contrast filter because it doesn’t photograph well ...

But long, long ago on a hot, hot day, someone set a credit card with the numbers 100 (shown here turned about 75°) on this dresser and the 100 part of the card melted into the varnish.

If I can somehow get the rest of the numbers, I’m going to DISNEY!

Blech

I think my sweaty T-shirt weighs more now than my entire body did when I started my run. It’s oppressively humid this morning, and thank goodness I ran before all the shadows disappeared because the sun isn’t playing any games with its death rays of skin-boiling heat.

I ran a little farther than normal—emphasis on “little”—before I turned around, but my running watch registered the net benefit as only .01 mile. (.01 miles? I wish I knew a decent writer who could tell me.) Anyway, we’ll treat that .01 as the teaser at the end of the credits to entice you into thinking there will be a sequel.

Now, TO THE SHOWERS!

When you wake up at 6:00 for no useful reason on a Saturday

and you see that it’s relatively nice out and your hair doesn’t look too ridiculous for a potential commemorative selfie so you decide to go for a run so you’ll slim down enough to fit into your high school parachute pants again in time for today’s Pride Fest.

I didn’t run the July 4 8K today for the first time in ever because my stupid five-week migraine prevented me from training

And it was soul-suckingly humid this morning, so I didn’t think it would be a good idea to try and power through it. But Facebook made a point of reminding me of a bygone day of 8K running and personal besting (8:32 pace!) and 32-inch waisting. So there’s that.

I just ran three miles in sweaty-Freddy humidity

WHY CAN’T I FIT IN MY HIGH-SCHOOL PARACHUTE PANTS ALREADY?

Could it be the 12:20 pace? It’s nice and even and divisible by many numbers. For instance, if you divide it by 2, I ran at a 6:10 pace. That should count for SOMETHING.

To make myself look—and feel!—better, I followed the Blanche Devereaux playbook and took my post-run selfie from above. Behold my eternal youth!

Her kingdom survived the tornadoes

All is well in Bitchkittyville.

The tornado sirens are screaming, the walls are weeping with condensation, and I’m currently entombed in the cinderblock bowels of Theatre Cedar Rapids with the casts of Ripcord and Newsies

I’m also wearing a costume. So our grisly deaths will at least come with coordinated outfits and a peppy musical score.

ACK! DON’T LET ME DIE WITH ALL THESE WEIRD THEATER PEOPLE!