Friday, August 16, 2019

I think my cat is broken

She mega-SUPER-barfed strategically in the shadowy part of the second stair down to my bedroom overnight and then held this pose with her mouth open while I took this picture of her this morning.

NORMAL CATS DON’T DO THIS.

Thursday, August 15, 2019

Swear not

When the moon is really quite breathtaking and even though you’re tired and want to go to bed you wander up and down the street taking a bunch of pictures to make sure you get one that does it justice:
BUT WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED ON THIS SHOT? It looks like melted ghosts ...




The N is for Nice Hair

And Nowledge.

Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Kickass montage of me being an extremely bad waiter in Aurora at Theatre Cedar Rapids

Courtesy of Studio Reserved

Today’s Vocabulary

DONEGAL: a tweed characterized by bright flecks distributed over a light background

CLOSE ENOUGH: this couch isn’t really donegal but it’s not proper tweed either

KERNING: the spacing between letters or characters in a proportional font

EYE TWITCHES: what graphic designers are experiencing because of my super-cute shirt

Monday, August 12, 2019

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.

I’m going to make “harder to find than the peanut butter at the west side Walmart” a common phrase in the popular English lexicon if it’s the last thing I do

(It’s by the tea. Because why put it by the bread LIKE IN EVERY OTHER GROCERY STORE IN THIS AND ALL OTHER GALAXIES?)

Also: I accidentally hit the wrong button at the gas pump and now my car is purring along on way fancier gas than it’s used to. I’m already scorning all you gutteral commoners and your sad little budget gas.

Has it really been only two years?

Remember two years ago when KKK Grand Wizard (what the fuck is THAT stupid title about, racists?) David Duke responded expectantly to all your white-supremacist dog whistles when you started your appalling abortion of a presidency, trump? Now your inbred disciples are regularly following your orders to open fire on brown people with small-dicked-incel assault weapons. And you fucking SUCK at pretending you're shocked.

There is not enough piss in the world to properly drench your grave.

Cool shirt. Weird couch.

Thank you for taking my call

Meghna Chakrabarti was NOT in the mood to let morons derail today's Hong Kong protests/China trade war On Point discussions, and when the Florida idiot called in and immediately bleated "Jeffrey Epstein is alive. Pizzagate is ..." she shut him off HAAAAARD.

I think I'm in love.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

Dear LORD that was a long day

I cleared some stuff out of my storage unit, sold a ton of books (for a meager $20, but still), learned choreography for 4.5 hours with a delightfully talented choreographer and a cast of dancers half my age, did a show that was spiced up with a tornado delay and a couple dropped lines on my part, emptied the litter box, decided to sleep with my gross wrist wound unbandaged to see how it survives a night in the open air, and took a helicopter selfie with Jeffrey Epstein’s alleged neck creases (too soon?) in our Kountry Krafts guest room where I’m still sleeping because the final push of my bedroom project has become kind of overwhelming. Good night!

“Places!”

“Thank you places!”

BEEEEEEEEP!

I’m just starting hour 4 of a 4.5-hour Hello, Dolly! choreo rehearsal that leads straight into an Aurora performance

I packed a snack to keep my vim and vigor up and a package of baby wipes to keep my Sturm und Drang down as I transition from exhausted, sweaty dancer to focused, pleasant-smelling actor. Wish me luck.

HAPPY GAY UNCLES DAY TO ME FROM ME since my ungrateful niece and nephew have clearly forgotten

Rude. (Snap!)

Fuck you, Equinox

I usually quietly stop patronizing a business whose politics mortally offend me (but I’m not quiet about shunning a business for appallingly shitty customer service, Best Buy and Dick’s Sporting Goods). While the MAGA ilk furiously destroys its perfectly good Keurig appliances and buys new Nike shoes to burn in sad little YouTube videos, I’ve never destroyed anything for any reason if I could instead give it to someone who might truly need it.

But here’s a loophole.

I went to Equinox gym in the Chicago loop faithfully for seven years. It was expensive as hell, but it was right next to a train line and three blocks from my office and while I was driving myself into abject poverty to look pretty I also hired their most expensive trainer to regularly kick my butt to the point of dry-heaving in the gorgeously appointed showers afterward. And I liked it!

But they were skeevy, lying, borderline cruel dicks to me when I moved home TO BE HOSPITALIZED IN A PSYCH WARD and understandably didn’t have canceling my gym membership high on my list of things to think about before I left town. Every time I called to cancel I got 1) a freakishly long wait time while someone went “to find a manager” and 2) a completely conflicting story by each manager du jour: I had to drive to Chicago to cancel in person, I could fax in a form that they never mailed to me, nobody could have possibly told me I could fax in a form because they don’t even have a fax machine, I could have a friend cancel in person for me if I mailed them a copy of the Illinois driver’s license that I’d forfeited when I got my Iowa one ... all of which was beyond the normal dick-around you get when you try to cancel a gym membership. It literally cost me over $1,000 in auto-pay membership fees (that protesting to my credit card AND EVEN CHANGING MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER couldn’t end) before I called the police and suddenly Equinox located that long-lost competent manager who canceled my membership easy-peasy on the spot, right over the phone.

Fuck you, Equinox.

I recently found the Equinox T-shirt that I was given as a new member. It was shittily made with a collar that was so high in the front that I always felt like I had it on backward, it had been languishing at the bottom of a box in my storage unit until very recently, and I actually thought I’d put it directly in a long-gone giveaway pile when I rediscovered it.

But I just found it again this morning, in the days after mass protests and cancellations have erupted after the discovery that billionaire Stephen Ross, founder of the Equinox/Soulcycle parent company, was hosting a massive trump fundraiser.

So in the wake of Equinox’s 1) shitty longtime-member customer service, 2) shitty owner’s shitty political ties and 3) shitty-fitting member T-shirt, I now have an expensive new set of painting rags. And a list of painting projects that are just SURE to be messy.
Fuck you, Equinox. (Or did I already say that?)