Postponed

I'm a little sad.

Hello sad, how are you?

For the first time in about five years I will not celebrate my birthday with my twin brother. I was going to, made the plans, was to have dinner with him and my parents in the city on Saturday, but every time I got online to make the arrangements I'd back out before purchasing tickets to get up there. I just couldn't do it.

And yesterday I realized I was too spent to travel what would inevitably be 10 hours to spend 20 hours total in New York (six or so sleeping). And it made me sad, to break with tradition, to miss out on a family event, to pass up the chance to see people I love and miss. But I couldn't do it. I already feel too far behind on too many things.

So I called everyone's cell phones and left these overly-dramatic messages about deciding not to come up. Each time I would break down midway through (I'm not sure why this seemed so tragic to me - it's something about being a cancer and being ridiculously committed to traditions) and then regain my composure and assure them each, "I mean, everything is fine, don't worry, really I'm okay..."

My father called me back first and assured me that everything was fine, we'd celebrate our birthdays later when my brother got back from Germany (yes, I know, tough life).

So, this year our birthday will happen a month late.

Which on some level is appropriate since we were five or so weeks premature.

I've always wondered what my life would have been like as a Leo.

(Hmmm. I just read the Leo profile. I think perhaps I have in fact been leading my life with all of the obsessiveness of a Leo and all of the moodiness of a Cancer. This explains a lot.)

...Keep Falling On My Head

If I hear one more flood or rain pun I'm going to, ummm, gurgle.

(See. You just can't escape it.)

My flood casualties were quite minor, all things considered.

1. My phone was waterlogged for about twelve hours after I walked through the rain on the CUA campus sans umbrella while talking to my mom. Several hours later it was again taking calls but the person on the other end sounded like they were calling from Uzbekistan rather than from College Park. By morning though all was well.

2. One metro card with about $3.20 on it. It got wet in my wallet in my bag. Seriously, everything got wet in these past four days. It stopped working and the metro guy said I'd have to go to Metro center to get it reissued. It now lies dormant in the Metro card graveyard in my wallet, which by the time I ever leave DC will have enough Metro cards to get me back and forth from New Carrolton, like, 18 times.

3. Finally, some degree of my dignity was lost when I showed up to Monday's rehearsal looking like I was ready to participate in a wet t-shirt contest. Note to self...

Otherwise things are going along quite swimmingly (doh). I'm a little bit swamped (gak) with rehearsals and other future planning because, you know - when it rains it pours (sheesh) but am looking forward to getting knee deep into it all (meh) and pulling together this latest production. It's great fun, and the cast has super energy and spirit so those are all plusses on our side. In addition, they are all (really) young and (really) pretty, so they're nice to look at. And I for one am enjoying relaxing into my role as dirty old director who likes pretty things.

Sleep Well

It is amazing what nine hours of sleep can do.

I spent the weekend with a headache that started Thursday night with two vodka-tonic troughs from Fox and Hounds. And for that I have no one to blame but myself.

I used to be fine with three. This was not the case on Thursday. I only had two.

I am getting old.

(I'm really not obsessed with the age thing. Really. It is just interesting to note the ways life... changes... as the years pass).

About halfway into the second drink Mr. Artistic Director from nearby theater comes in, following a preview of soon to open show. For some reason it struck me as a good idea to go and say hello.

Don't ever, ever, ever let me do that again.

Fortunately I got turned around during the walk from my table to the bar and ended up talking the ear off of Sound Designer of soon to open show rather than to Mr. Artistic Director, to whom I gave a perfectly respectable hello.

By the time I got home through the weird apocalyptic weather of Thursday late night, I had a headache. It stayed for two days. Friggin' Fox and Hounds. I think the vodka they serve would be better suited to strip paint.

This weekend it stripped away at my neurological sensors.

After many sober hours and an hour long afternoon nap I met friends out for Thai food to "celebrate" a fellow NCSA alums return to New York.

Still had a headache. Attempted to combat it by making my basil-tofu really spicy with extra hot sauce from the spice caddy. Thought maybe I'd sweat out the pain.

Didn't work.

Went to Tunni's where fellow alum said goodbye to colleagues from the Big Shakespeare Theater where she's been working. JS tried to get me to drink vodka, saying the only way to get rid of the headache would be to face my fears and get back on the horse and eat the hair of the dog and all other sorts of metaphors. Tried.

Didn't work.

Saw several people in seersucker. Took the seersucker poll. Sweet gay director said that what he thought what was worse than seersucker were men in capri pants.

I said "My brother wears capri pants!"

I mean, not really capri, but like, cropped pants, and I think they're fine...

Saturday night went with HP to see an intriguing and complex play, still nursing said headache. Afterwards I convinced her to go to an overpriced sort of pseudo french bistro instead of Fox and Hounds because I was worried that even stepping foot into the place would do me harm. Plus HP was bummed about not making it up to New York this weekend so I thought a pseudo-French bistro would feel very New York.

At midnight we were shuffled inside in that annoying seventeenth street sweep that happens every evening and I broke down and ordered pomme frites. Which were good by the way. Very good.

So I had my wine and she had her gin and we had fresh hot pomme frites and suddenly someone turns up the music and the place becomes this blaring loud club. It was the most bizarre thing. Some sort of Middle Eastern Techno music at full volume and a dance floor that wasn't really a dance floor filled with euro-trash-y men, maybe one or two women. Who knew?

HP and I settled our tab and escaped.

Headed home, drank a lot of water, took two aleve, and nine hours later woke up with painfree temples and a steadfast vow never, ever to drink two F&H vodka tonics on an empty stomach again. Ever.

Suck Being the Operative Word

I am the last person who should ever be giving anyone fashion advice. But can someone please tell me - does anyone actually like how seersucker looks?

There have been all these commentaries in the Washington press about how tacky flip-flops are and what the sociological ramifications of popping a collar are, but seersucker seems to pass unscathed.

And I have to say, I kind of hate it.

When I walk around capitol hill and see all these men in seersucker I get the sense that everyone's mommy has dressed them up to go to Easter Dinner. Sorry, but I do. Like they should be wearing short pants and trailing a little wooden duck behind them.

And seersucker isn't flattering, to anyone.

Maybe if it's worn with a sense of irony I can smile about it. But I detect no irony from the men on the hill.

I know it is hot in DC. I am sure seersucker is cooler than other suits. And it must suck to have to wear a suit to work everyday, really, I understand that.

But rethink the seersucker.

Please.

It's Also a Prime Number

It occurred to me today that eight days remain until that day, the day, and maybe that is also why things have been a bit fuzzy lately.

I will post about the concert and the rest of my new york time soon, but perhaps this week will otherwise be dedicated to the upcoming year.

To begin. Thirty gets all the credit, right? But there's got to be something special about thirty-one...

Thirty-one is:

The number of days in the months January, March, May, July, August, October and December.

The code for international direct dial phone calls to the Netherlands.

A card game.

The number of flavors of Baskin Robbins.

Historical years: 31 A.D., 31 B.C. or 1931.

Turkish slang for masturbation ("otuzbir").

Those were courtesy of Wikipedia. There has to be something more significant about thirty-one than frozen dairy deserts, right?

If it's 10 AM it's Philly

I've gotten really good at sleeping on trains. In fact, I've always been good at sleeping on anything that moves. (Which makes me a very scary long-distance driver).

We would take these six hour drives from Rochester to New Jersey when I was a kid and my brother and I each got our own seat in the silver Astro Van (which surely eliminated hours of territory battles).

We would load everything into the car, throw some pillows into each of our respective travel beds, pull out onto the first main street from our "tract" and instantly I'd be out cold. My parents would wake me for a Wendy's stop; I'd have a frosty and twenty minutes of groggy conversation; then be out for the remaining several hours.

It was like teleporting. Fall asleep in Rochester, NY and wake up in Flemington, NJ. Brilliant.

I would really love a Wendy's Frosty right now. Wouldn't you? Now that you've started thinking about it?

Unfortunately, as skilled as I am at sleeping on trains they still don't lend themselves to a great sleep. Now I fell kind of achey and my contacts are sticky for the rest of the day.

I had my own seat leaving Penn Station, had a business man neighbor between Wilmington and Philly (who I tried not to drool on or do the "my head keeps falling over and almost leaning onto your shoulder" thing) and then had two really chipper just out of college girls sitting behind me from Philly back to DC. They didn't understand that train rides are for sleeping and not for talking and chattered away for the full two hours of their trip. It was kind of unbelievable. As soon as one finished a statement the other would come right in, without pause, like they were doing a speed-through of their lives to get everyone to pick up cues.

It was exhausting just listening to them.

This all followed another two days in New York. I thought I had better reasons to go up than I did but once the plans were made it was going to happen. More on that eventually, highlights included a matinee of Awake and Sing and the Gomez concert at Webster Hall (with Martha Wainwright opening).

But I can't type anymore because my contacts are itchy.

It's Not All About Me

(It's going to be really long and ramble-y. Je m'excuse.)

This is about what happened during the rest of my weekend. And why I realized I was being petty on Friday.

Later Friday afternoon I watched a reading (and really, that meant just hearing the text aloud) of My Name is Rachel Corrie. I'm not going to get into the politics that are implicit to this piece because the whole Israeli-Palestinian question is one of the most difficult political terrains for me to navigate and I can discuss it in person but I'm not going to try to articulate those feelings here.

I will say this - it was much less political than I expected it to be based on the maelstrom that surrounded the planned NYTW production. And hearing a little bit more about the NYTW story (from people who heard it from Nicola himself) made me realize that a lot of the information that has been circulating, both in the press and within the blogging world, is not necessarily true. But I won't get into that either.

Nor will I discuss the play's worth from a theatrical perspective. Again, I have a lot of thoughts and they range from completely objective director things to totally visceral responses. And I'm not going to try to express them here. Because ultimately I'm not a writer and I won't do these feelings justice.

What I will say is this - what affected me most about this piece, what I am still thinking about four days later, was the distance I felt from Rachel Corrie. She was an idealistic twenty-four year old who thought she could change the world. I have somehow become a cynical thirty-year-old who often would rather stick my head in the proverbial sand. What happened?

I tell myself that I do what I can for the world in the realm that I feel comfortable in. I tell myself a lot of things to make me feel better. Maybe we all do.

Realizing that was not a comforting experience.

Other impressions: the exchanges in the play that derive from emails between Rachel and her parents were the scenes that actually moved me emotionally.

The Corrie's worried about the path she was taking. Of course they did.

But you made me this way! She countered.

I have the same debate with my parents. While, in comparison, I am living an extremely safe and mainstream life my mother and father still worry constantly about the insecurity of the path I have taken. They worry about whether I can pay my rent. They worry about whether I will have health insurance. They worry about me reaching thirty-one without... plans.

But you made me this way! I counter.

We have a joke in my house. I have a cousin who is an accountant for Price-Waterhouse- Whatever who has a house in Texas that is bigger than any house I ever lived in and more impressive than any house my parents have ever owned. I don't say this with any envy. I don't give a sh*t about that big house.

But one thanksgiving my mother brought up the big house with some sense of longing (sorry mom, but you did.) The big brick house in Texas.

And of course I jumped on it and got bent out of shape because I was suddenly convinced that my mom really wished I'd become an accountant instead of what I do. It's a ridiculous idea. I can barely balance my checkbook. It's about as likely that I'd become an accountant as it is that I'd try figure skating in the Olympics.

But my poor mother will never live that down.

When you step out of Grand Central station - which we do when we come in from Poughkeepsie - a gigantic branch of P-W-Whatever looms before us, bright and gleaming. I challenge her to point out my destined corner office. The first time I did it she laughed. Now she just rolls her eyes.

We are the sum of our parts. There is something inevitable about that.

But what defies inevitability, or logic or order for that matter, is when a child dies before the parent. It throws off the natural balance.

So I found myself crying for the Corrie's, politics aside.

And Saturday night I cried for Mejra. (Sorry - minor spoilers here). The Monument is about a mother's attempts to exact revenge on her child's murderer. The revenge is theatrical and complex, but at the root of it there is a mother's intense grief at having lost a child, again, politics aside.

What we know about the daughter is that she was idealistic, passionate - she believed she could make the world a better place. Until that world brought her down.

Kudos to all involved in the production.

So, when Mejra tumbled on top of Rachel Corrie in my brain it became very clear to me that what I needed more than anything last week was perspective. And I got it.

More enjoyable weekend stuff included margaritas at La Lomita and my first trip to Wonderland, which was totally tolerable until the patio closed and the place filled up with more NW hipsters than I could handle at one time. After that we followed Thoreau to a nearby party where my cousin had vaguely uncomfortable encounters with boys while he and I looked on.

Sunday was all about the fundraiser. But you know that already.

Eighth Grade Pining

We had a great time last night.

The fifteen-year-olds that make up Lemonface are remarkable and, several of us agreed, far better adjusted than we are (we being the thirtyish-year-olds putting the event together). Not better adjusted than we were at fifteen, but better adjusted than we were two weeks ago.

The guitar player has this floppy hair that gets in his eyes all the time and he plays with his shoes off. He reminded me of the skater boys that I pined after when I was fourteen. By then I'd realized that the football and basketball player jock-types were kind of boring and mainstream and wouldn't ever go for the dorky girl with poufy hair who did morning announcements and mock trial and was always rehearsing for the school play, anyway. The skater boys wouldn't go for me either, but at least I could spin enough of a mystique around them to create sufficient fodder for my eighth grade longings.

They all had those skater cuts. Either too long bowl cuts or shaved on one side and long on the other. Always hair flopping into their eyes.

They were so (expletive deleted) cute.

They listened to the Smiths and Morrissey and the Cure. I listened to show tunes.

It was never meant to be.

They ran cross country and played tennis instead of football and basketball.

They dated the cool alternative chicks.

I put mousse in my hair. Every morning.

It was never going to happen.

I crossed paths with one of the cool skater boys about five years ago in New York through a mutual friend who was passing through the city. He and his fiance came out with us and he talked about where he'd gotten his MBA and the apartment on the upper east side that they were looking to purchase.

His anarchist spirit was gone. She had a beautiful engagement ring,

It was a little bit of a let down.

Can I Have a Do-over?

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

That last post was ridiculously self-indulgent and morose and I knew I would regret posting it. I feel silly. Sad posting, like drunk text-messaging, is a terrible weakness of mine.

And I should think about what I am putting out into the world. I know everyone who blogs faces this question eventually and frankly, I'm not even sure why I blog anymore since it started when I was out of town as a way to keep my family updated and I don't even know if they read it anymore. I fear that it is an accident waiting to happen. And that it is probably a completely ego driven exercise.

But then, what isn't?

I feel very sheepish for many reasons right now. I need to think on this.

Sigh. Yes. Sigh.

I'm tired. Not literally (though a bit of that too) but existentially. And how pretentious does that sound?

I try not to complain much, here or in life, but I have to do it once and quickly and then I think it will hurt less, okay? Like removing a band aid. Just once. Never again. I promise.

I'm tired of having to work at a day job in order to do what I love.
I'm tired of being broke.
I'm tired of switching trains at Metro Center.
I'm tired of the hill staffers in the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I'm tired of meals from Panera and Potbelly.
I'm tired of not finding him.
I'm tired of news from the internet.
I'm tired of vodka tonics.
I'm tired of heavy bags (literally).
I'm tired of heavy baggage (metaphorically).
I'm tired of long hair.
I'm tired of ATMs.
I'm tired of missed calls.
I'm tired of unopened mail.
I'm tired of balance bars.
I'm tired of unwatched netflix.
I'm tired of regret.
I'm tired of questions.
I'm tired of unfinished books.
I'm tired of waiting (for trains, for service, for elevators, for returned calls, for love, for success).

I know some of these things I can fix easily (umm, haircut?) And I will. And I feel better already having articulated that.

I promise I'll be more fun the next time you see me.

The American Way

I'm proud of myself. I resisted watching the insipid drivel of the Tyra Banks show this morning at the gym and instead watched forty minutes of the documentary that Ethel and Julius Rosenberg's granddaughter made, Heir to an Execution.

Of course, now I have to add it to my Netflix list so I can watch the whole thing.

Fascinating. Horrifying.

Most of what I know about the Rosenberg's (and about Roy Cohn) came from Angels in America, so it's Kushner-ized. Which doesn't make it inaccurate, just, more dramatically interesting.

Not that their story needs much primping to make it dramatic. I had no idea about the storyline involving Ethel's brother. What was going on in that family? And the fact that family members refused to adopt the two orphaned sons? Something so dark and insidious courses through the whole story.

And that our country could have strapped this woman, with her sad eyes and her hint of a smile, into an electric chair and watched as the smoke came out of her ears? What a country.

I have no informed opinion about whether they, or she, or he, was actually guilty, or how guilty, or guilty of what. But to give them the electric chair? To let our nation's climate of fear and rank Nationalism lead to the inevitable conclusion of these two people dying? All to prove a point? To show we won't back down? To illustrate our commitment to the survival of "truth, justice and the American way"? Wait, what?

We left those two boys without parents. We let that happen.

Not that we don't do that everyday. Leaving children without parents, without brothers, without grandmothers, without siblings, without fingers, without feet, without limbs.

Sunday Night with 'Tweens and Tunes

Some press links for our event Sunday:

DC Theatre Reviews gets the prize for the best headline.

Potomac Stages plugged us on June 7th.

DCist likes Lemonface and so do we (see Sunday's listing).

It really should be a good time. And it's only $7!! Yes, $7!!

You will be supporting emerging artists, rocking to one of the coolest bands around (and let's face it, they are frikkin' adorable, aren't they?) and hanging with old friends and new.

What's not to like?

Join us.

New York Links

This is the restaurant that B took us to on Saturday night. It's great. If you live in New York, go. You'll like it. Lots of hip Japanese teenagers filling the place, so that has to mean something, right?

Here is a review of the Cat Power concert. I left right after she came out for her "white dress" encore, but it doesn't sound like we missed much. "Where is my love" - the, like, twenty minute version, did, indeed, make me weep. B was warned ahead of time that this might happen.

The party we then went to was a going-away party for my friend Gavin who is officially now a *BIG BROADWAY STAR*. He's going overseas to do a show in London. Poor Gavin. Dare I say though, the boy is still an absolute sweetheart. Success has only made him a better human being. How often can you say that about someone?

Trekking up the Hudson

I'm in Poughkeepsie. So good to see everyone. I hate to have to leave tomorrow.

I wish I could stop time for a while and just hang out up here for a spell. There's a house and a patio and a cat and a bed and a family and it means everything can stop for a moment and I can forget about emails and phone messages and rent and bills and life.

But tomorrow at 9pm I'll be catching the Greyhound back to DC. Because arriving at the bus station in DC at 2am sounds like a really fabulous idea.

I had a great two days in New York. I ate and drank a lot. (Former) speechwriter boy and I had a surprisingly hip dinner in sort of lower hell's kitchen - which was something of a wasteland when I left New York but like the rest of the city, now actually has destination restaurants and clubs. Then I met B when he got out of work and we made our now traditional trip to Blue Ribbon to eat and drink (he ate, I drank) with the night shift crowd. Saturday I became reacquainted with the cutest baby ever (see above if you don't believe me) then ate Japanese kabobs with B and his friend J, headed over to Cat Power, and later to a University of Michigan musical theater reunion of sorts...perhaps more on that later... then after a four and a half hours of sleep met my parents for brunch, the photography museum, an afternoon attempting to avoid the Puerto Rican day parade (unsuccessfully) and finally a visit to the 24-hour-Apple store which was everything I imagined it to be and more. And now here, Poughkeepsie, bed, cat, home, exhausted.

Coming in to Land

I'm off to New York in about three hours. I'll be in the city to see friends and then the Cat Power concert on Saturday night and then will meet up with my parents Sunday for brunch and flea markets. We pick up my brother from the airport Sunday evening, and I'll get to spend about 24 hours with him until I have to head back. I think the last time I saw him was in November.

I miss him.

I'm a bit overwhelmed these days. If I have been a bad blogger I have been a much worse friend. I am just in one of those phases where I am sure at all times that I am forgetting to do something somewhere and completely letting somebody down. Even if that somebody is myself.

And it is June so you know what that means.

Soon perhaps an end of year review. If I can goad myself to get into that territory.

Save the Date

You all will be hearing about this from me all next week. Join us. It really should be a lot of fun. And Lemonface is great.

I do love Degrassi, even though it's Canadian

I've been a bit consumed with a grant application and a fledgling big project (more on that later). So instead of actually thinking, I did another meme.

1 - Do people notice you when you walk into a room?
I think it depends on their sexual orientation.

2- When is the last time you became unraveled?
May 27. About 10:30pm . I used the "C" word.

3-What are you good at?
Listening. Talking. Finding debtors. Arguing. Hoola hoop. Backbends. Making snap judgments. Reading comprehension. Analogies. Using words. Starting projects.

4-What's in your pocket?
Nada.

5-What songs would you play to match these situations:
I'm not doing this question. It hurts my brain.

6-Name 3 songs that remind you of playing when you were a child.
Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? - Chicago
Celebrate - Kool and the Gang
Ebony and Ivory - Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney

7-How would you spend a rainy holiday weekend?
Assuming that means staying in town? I'd stay in bed until it becomes unbearable, watch Netflix and read something, anything - maybe one of my soon-to-arrive 68 magazine subscriptions, and then later find someone to go get Thai or Turkish or Vietnamese or Mexican food on the hill. You didn't know you could get all those on the hill, did you? Northwest elitists.

8- What song is playing right now?
In my head - the Gun Song from Assassins

9-If you could have a DVD/VHS of any TV show that you watched as a child, what would it be?
Degrassi

10-Name 5 songs that remind you of summer.
No more song questions.

11-Name a food you can't live without.
Quite literally - Tuna and tofu. (Not at the same time). Otherwise I would never get protein.

12- How do you like your eggs?
Scrambled. Or in an omelet. Cage free chickens only, please.

13-What kind of food are you?
I'm ceviche. Pretty raw. Tangy. Something of an acquired taste.

14-Are you brave or cowardly?
I don't know.

15- What makes you lose focus?
Blogs.

16-When is the last time you felt appreciated?
Yesterday when I received a nice note from a playwright I just worked with.

17-What is the weirdest thing about you?
There is absolutely nothing weird about me. I am totally normal.

18-If like the newspaper you could have anything delivered to your front doorstep each and every morning, what would it be?
An americano, a vitamin water and a balance bar.

19-Which month of the year describes your personality?
March. Unpredictable. And it takes me a little while to warm up to you.

20-Who is your hero & why?
Amelia Earheart. Victoria Woodhall. Virginia Woolf. Gloria Steinam.
Oh come on, you know why, trail blazers and all that.

21-Name something (of non-monetary value) that you've always wanted but have never received.
A good reason why.

Consider yourself tagged if you want to spend twenty minutes thinking about silly questions. It's a good distraction, anyhow.

Periodical Pinings

Okay, so yesterday I think I subscribed to four magazines and it's all supposed to be free. It happened because I ordered tickets through ticketmaster. I filled out their survey thing and suddenly the screen said - "You can pick up to four magazines to subscribe to for one year for free and pay only $2.00 shipping!!!!"

I'm usually extremely skeptical about any "free lunches" as it were, but I kept on going. I picked four magazines (Time, Newsweek. National Geographic Traveler and Spin) and went to the billing page. And I think I read all the small print and I think it still said I was only paying $2.00 per subscription (but oh goodness small print is so small so maybe I did miss something) and I DID put my credit card info in (you know, so they could actually charge me the $52.00 for Time) and it went through and I think it still said $8.00 total.

I think.

So could this be for real? Has anyone ever done this before?

Am I getting the deal of the century here? Or did I actually just pay $130.00 for magazines I don't really want or need?

In other news, this is what I was reading this weekend:

Charles Isherwood confirms once again that what he likes best are directors and playwrights who keep their own damn hands out of the pot. I don't disagree with him - sometimes the best direction is the direction you don't even notice. And I for one am far from being an auteur. But this combined with all the other statements he has made this year just reinforces to me that he likes his theater artists to play nice. And sometimes, I think, that can be kind of boring.

A better than average Modern Love (which hasn't happened in a while).

The Times restates the obvious. When they got to the part where they were quoting twenty-year-olds about how much it hurt when their best friend started dating their ex-boyfriend in the eleventh grade my eyes started to ache from rolling so much. Really. Who cares?

Don't worry girls! There's hope for us yet!

It Takes Personality

Benevolent Inventor

A very accurate, extremely specific, pain-stakingly callibrated personality test that takes all of eight minutes. I love it.

Scroll over the colors and it tells you my deficiencies.

For example: I have a slightly low masculintity AND a slightly low femininity. Which makes me what? Jamie Lee Curtis?

I also have a very high trust and a slightly high openness. Fortunately the world is constantly making an effort to change that.

But best of all, I have a slightly low attention to style.

Which should come to everyone as a REALLY BIG SURPRISE.

Scattered

I'm a little overwhelmed right now. Not good overwhelmed, not bad overwhelmed, just generally - yes, sputtering.

Trying to recover financially from the last several months. Trying also to make a trip up to New York this weekend.

I know. Those two things completely contradict each other.

Also putting together this endless application for a program I'm not a great candidate for anyway (don't worry, it doesn't require me to leave DC). I had almost finished my personal statement when I simply didn't save the new draft. So, back to the drawing board and overnight mailing tomorrow morning.

I hate personal statements even more than I hate getting recommendations. When I was applying to colleges the first time around the one and only reason I did not end up applying to Northwestern was that they required three personal essays. Three! Couldn't do it. I'd prepare auditions up the wazoo, but totally bailed when asked to write multiple statements. And this from someone who started out as an English minor. Too lazy to write.

In other news:

I heard this story on Democracy Now this morning. The woman was apparently on her way to the hopital to give birth. Fucked up, right?'

I have not gotten my hair cut for over nine months. Pathetic.

I saw my college roommate for lunch the other day. She was in from LA visiting her mother in Baltimore. She sells great t-shirts through Cafe Press. I am going to buy one. Maybe you should too.

I am reading and re-reading legalese which might as well be, well, anything but English.