Don't walk on the grass

I can think of no better way to paint woodwork than to do it while warbling along with this richly orchestrated and gorgeously sung tongue-twister of a jewel of a song on infinite repeat:

I’m home, after listening to this song on repeat for at least 30 minutes

It’s so brilliant—and so brilliantly layered—that we mortals don’t deserve it ... especially the cascading “hello” obbligato starting at 2:16. It’s transcendently rapturous.

Plus, Andrew Rannells: CALL ME.

Ice-cold Cherry Bubly? Check.

Two freshly homemade pies? Check. Gay-ass Longaberger pie carrier with gay-ass fruit-print ruffled liner? Check. New thingie I just bought to stick in my cigarette lighter and broadcast show tunes and podcasts from my phone to a radio station? Check. A library of more show tunes and podcasts than one person could listen to in five lifetimes? Check.

Full tank of gas to get me to my Galena weekend reunion vacation without having to stop?

Shit.

Well apparently I’m never going upstairs again.

Bitch Kitty’s powers are so strong that not only have they imprisoned me in my basement dungeon until a handsome prince (preferably wearing a speedo and singing show-tune duets in a comfortable key) comes to rescue me, but they’ve also turned our staircase walls into shiny molten caramel.

Back and biceps at the gym

Then show tunes and stripping at rehearsal.

#AlliterativeLife

How can they see with ... um ... cat ... butt ... in their eyes?

#WeirdStuffICollectOnMyPhone

So it became instantly clear when Scott and Rob showed up this morning that nobody was emotionally invested in tacking our planned fourth mile onto our usual three-mile run

At least they weren’t; I’m a hollowed-out emotional void, so I’m not emotionally invested in anything. But we had a quorum anyway so I was spared the awkward responsibility of being the vice-presidential tie-breaker.

As usual, Rob and I spent our run discussing show tunes, the cosmic events that cause cars to appear at our street crossings ONLY when we try to cross them, the absurdity of String Theory in the face of Loop Quantum Gravity, and owls. Also as usual, Scott ran ahead of us, this time so far that he added some loops, ran an additional .45 miles, still beat us to our finish line, and greeted us there ironically in an owl costume. Let’s all agree that Scott is the weird one in our group. It goes without saying that Rob is the talented one, and I of course am Farrah Fawcett.

PS: Dad, I remembered to take the yardy to the curb.

Three miles! 10:46 pace!

The 10:16 pace was actually just Rob and me; he slogged along with my slow ass so we could talk about SHOW TUNES! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Rival-gang-member-and-occasional-interloper Traci (whom I’m calling a rival gang member here solely for the purpose of layering dramatic tension into this artfully nuanced narrative) sprinted ahead with pack-leader Scott and talked about the dreary sociopolitical metaphors of prescription constipation medication commercials. Or grapes. Or something. How would I know? I was in the back discussing Bernadette Peters’ surprisingly tepid movie career with Rob.

Anyway, here is this morning’s litany of complaints:
• Rob was 10 minutes late because he went the wrong way on the highway
• Because Bernadette Peters’ surprisingly tepid movie career is distressing to the point of highway distraction
• Rob’s 10 minute delay seems to have increased the potentially us-hitting automobile cross traffic on our running trail exponentially
• BECAUSE ROB WENT THE WRONG WAY ON THE HIGHWAY THIS MORNING
• WHO DOES THAT?
• OK, I’ve done it a couple times too
• But I’ll never admit it on here
• The fog this morning was insane
• Autocorrect just insisted that I wanted to write about insane figs
• That’s crazy
• Anyway, back to the fog ...
• It was so thick
• (How thick was it?)
• The fog this morning was so thick that it made us all sopping wet after our run
• What? Not everything has to be a joke, people
• Sheesh
• Let’s see ... Rob has driving-moron issues, Traci ran with us, Scott may or may not have talked about grapes, I’m awesome because this is my narrative and I control the content, Bernadette Peters, lots of cross traffic, insane figs, wet runners, sheesh ... that about covers everything
• Except we tried to stand or squat in levels for our post-run selfie and I chose to squat and then I had a hard time standing up afterward
• Probably because I have scurvy caused by an acute grape deficiency
• Or maybe it’s figs
• Which is insane

Just Another Day

Don't invite us to all your tedious A-list New Year's Eve parties again this year

because we're already booked to spend New Year's Eve DANCING THROUGH LIFE WITH KRISTIN CHENOWETH AT HANCHER! 

I think we were infiltrated by a different gang on this morning’s run. Plus Traci ran with us.

Scott, as usual, hid in the back and was zero help in asserting our dominance on our gang turf. But then again he’s a gang intern so he has to stay not-stabbed so he can get us coffee. Rob flashed some gang signs, but he doesn’t have knuck tats that say SHOW TUNE so his gang signs are weak and girly. So I had to keep our turf protected with my snarling rictus. Which, of course, is our gang name. But we should call ourselves the Sub Elevens because THAT’S WHAT WE’RE RUNNING PEOPLE BOOYAH!

Here’s the steep and very narrow stairway I’ll be upping every night for the next six weeks as I do little else to prepare for our show:

She had it comin'

It IS be nice

We’re in the car where it highways jamming to the CD where it harmonies on our way to see the show where it Hamiltons!

We'll always care

We finally got Scott to be the Deena to our Effie and Lorell! But I think that’s MORE than enough of this Scott-in-the-middle stuff, and we’ll relegate him to the back where he belongs post-haste.

This morning’s three miles were muggy (which I just learned is a mostly Midwestern word that’s our polite way of saying moist), though we felt the illusion of cooling breezes once we were moving through the air. But boy, once we finished running we sure were sweaty and moist. The only real problem we faced on this morning’s run was multiple near-grisly-death experiences; there was apparently a 6:30-am-flash-mob-except-instead-of-the-high-school-drama-department-dancing-to-“Thriller”-in-a-mall-it-was-cars-dispatched-to-encounter-and-almost-not-see-us-at-nearly-every-intersection pride parade. I always give a little thank-you wave to every car that stops for us, but I also always worry that the drivers think I’m self-entitledly hand-yelling at them to STOP YOU SELFISHLY UNSAFE IDIOT BECAUSE WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY and they’ll get to work and talk smack about us to the steno pool. (Dear every driver who ever encounters me at an intersection: I’m pretty sure that I do indeed have the right of way, but you have the giant vehicular-manslaughter machine that would totally win in a game of Intersection Smackdown! against my rippable flesh and brittle bones so I ALWAYS defer to whatever you want to do.)

But where was I? Let’s see: Dreamgirls reference ... moist ... moist again ... gratuitously long compound adjective ... Michael Jackson reference ... talk of grisly death ... gratuitous use of all caps ... antiquated euphemism for a group of secretaries ... parenthetical side note that was not meant for you and you were rude to read it ... what did I forget? Oh, yes: a contextless mention of Rob so he gets included in this rambling post that somehow never got around to mentioning him organically. Because it’s more than Scott. It’s more than me. Whatever miles we run, we are a family.

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd ...

Music To Build A Bookshelf By And By The Way Notice That My Music Library Isn’t ALL Show Tunes Just Mostly Show Tunes Because My Tastes Are Wondrously Diverse And Uber Manly Yo

Four serious allegations

OK. I’ll cop to the charges of wearing cargo shorts and owning Abercrombie & Fitch over the age of 22—and I will totally Javert you for turning me in, whoever you are—and I assume the other two charges are pre-emptive for grammar-shaming the robocall for saying “four serious allegations pressed on your name” and “so that we can discuss about this case” and for awkwardly flirting with any of the local police who might be cute, but I refuse to lower my standards to the point of calling an an upstate New York area code because I’m a Manhattan-or-nothing kind of wannabe New Yorker. 

So come and take me under custody—especially if we get to sing “Cell Block Tango”—cute local coppers!

Most runners run with music

Rock ‘n’ roll, maybe. Or (I’ll deny this if you say anything) disco. Or (nobody’d believe me if I tried to deny this so I won’t even waste my time) show tunes.

But me? Noooo.

I’m about to spend 3.22 miles listening to the pulsing, motivating beat of my own voice, hopefully driving my lines for Fuddy Meers deep in my head:

You’ll know if it worked when you come see the show.

One day until my Big Birthday Broadway Binge Bash!

I'm rounding out my four-day overdose of big-gay-show-tunes theater and Jimmy-Fallon-VIP-seats TV tapings with a three-plus-mile run through the always-surprisingly-hilly Central Park, a visit to the Iowa-homeboy Grant Wood exhibit at the big-city-New-York Whitney Museum and a dance-with-the-pros tap class at the where-the-pros-train Broadway Dance Center.

There's still an entire Friday afternoon to fill, possibly at the Frick, possibly at the Cloisters, possibly trekking along the Highline, possibly traversing the Brooklyn Bridge, possibly visiting the brand-spanking-new Nordstrom men's store ... my Friday is full of delicious possibilities!

#HowToTurn50