Monday Night Plans

Often when I speak to people about my theatrical path here in DC I get to the part about directing Titus! (the musical) in 2003 and they say, “Yeah, I heard about that! I always wished I’d seen that!” I mean, not everyone says that. But really, people have.

Anyhow.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, is your chance:

What: Titus, A New Musical (music and lyrics by Shawn Northrip)

When: Monday, July 2nd, 9 p.m. - ONE NIGHT ONLY - $8

Where: The Black Cat (14th Street btwn S and T Streets)

Why: To raise money for this summer's Capital Fringe Festival production of Cautionary Tales for Adults & The Many Adventures of Trixie Tickles

Who: Bouncing Ball Theatre http://www.bouncingballtheatre.com/ for more info.

Shawn Northrip's send-up of the Shakespeare classic will be performed with a three-piece band.

Titus Andronicus is the story of a mad f*cked-up general on a blood-filled quest to avenge the death of his 21 sons, ending in a banquet that serves pies made from the flesh of his enemy's spawns. Delish and creepy! Shakespeare's crazy play gets the punk rock treatment! The piece will be performed by 6 actors/singers. Musical theatre has never been so nasty!

Loud, rude and not for the little ones!!

The show features local actors Jewel Greenberg, Casie Platt, Andrew Honeycutt and Cesar Guadamuz--joined by NY Titus alum Pete Schuyler and Joe Pindelski (Joey is still a hometown boy to me even though the big city snatched him up a few years ago).

So join us. It should be a blast. And a bloody blast at that.

Play by Play

In the spirit of Gwenergy I'll give a day by day of the life and times. I like Gwenergy's day-by-days. They make me feel like we've gotten to hang out when we are really both too busy to actually make that happen.

Any editorializing is totally up to you.

Right, so, last we met was like, last Thursday?

Wait. What have I been doing since last Thursday?

Thursday I saw the Solas Nua play, I mentioned that already. I was thoroughly impressed. The ride hope was a bit interminable (last trains so hold at the station, hold at the next station, hold at Metro Center...) Good times.

Friday I worked with the Box Office Babes over at the Folger, and was glad to see Miss Hillary up and running again. Hil sun-burned her eyes playing beach volleyball a couple of weeks ago. Did you know this could happen? I didn't. Lesson to be learned: get proper sun protection for your eyes!

Later, I met my DALI designer for dinner, and he told me very funny stories about his brother-in-law. Funny in retrospect, probably not so funny when they were actually happening. I consumed the largest salad known to man at Luna Cafe and we talked a wee bit about the show we are working on next spring.

Then festivities out in Shirlington to honor the birth of the fabulous Mr. Rhea. I was happy to raise a glass to my fellow Cancer--and I have now almost been won over by the charms of Cap City. Soft pretzels with the horseradish dip? Yes. Addictive.

It is, however, still in Virginia.

Saturday we had book club out at HPMelon's, I got us lost on the way. Apparently when you are looking for an exit for the Dulles Toll Road and there is a giant sign that says DULLES TOLL ROAD that is where you are supposed to get off. Who knew.

Nobody really liked the book: GHOSTS, by John Banville.

It.


Moved.


Really.


Slow.


Discussion was still fun, digressions were had, and a mini-concert by the mini-Melons capped the afternoon. Huzzah.

Then I worked some and later met the equestrian for a drink? Some food? I don't remember. One or both.

The next day included another journey out to the suburbs, again not without some distress. Brother of the equestrian lives out in one of the Virginia 'burbs that all sound a little bit alike and his mother was down from up north. We headed out for a mid-day lunch and visit. Or so we thought.

We made it along the 395 stretch but as we were exiting the highway there was a bump-bump-bump-suspicious-tire-problem-noise. We inched along to a gas station and sure enough, one back tire was shot. The other back tire was on it's last leg. Errr, tread. Because these were special "ride flat" tires, they are not the kind of thing you can buy at any service station.

We walked to the Merchants up the road. Can't buy them there either. A great idea in theory--you can drive fifty miles on a flat, safely--but when it comes to actually getting a new tire you have to go to the special dealership that exists only in a magical land somewhere past the second rainbow and just beyond the babbling sparkling spring water brook. Or something.

This is where things start to feel a little tense. I don't deal well with tense. I also don't deal well with cars.

I would say about 88% of the familial tension I experienced growing up had something to do with an automobile. Getting and giving directions. Road trips. Getting lost. Buying a car. Selling a car. Getting to drive the car. So my pavlovian response at this point was "Give distance. Get far away."

I volunteered to walk over the the nearby Whole Foods. "I'll get a bottle of wine. For lunch. Or, I mean, to drink with lunch. Good idea, right?"

The equestrian, meanwhile, tried to find out if he could put another non-magical-leprechaun tire on the car.

I stalled at the Whole Foods. White or Red? Rose's are hot now. Green wine from Portugal? I felt bad eating samples when the equestrian was sitting in the sun on the phone with AAA now. So I restrained. Or I had, like, one piece of cheese. Maybe two.

Back at the ranch (Shell Station) AAA has been called. They say ninety minutes. "Oh, it never actually takes them 90 minutes!" I say, quite sure of my prediction.

About two and a half hours later (yes, 150 minutes) AAA shows up. Between my famous-last-words and this event we have made another trip to the Whole Foods, consumed fruit salad and vegan jerky, read the Washington Post, sunned on the heavily landscaped Shell front lawn, and otherwise wiled away several hours of the afternoon.

Alas, alack, sometimes life throws a wrench at you and nothing can be done but to wait for the men with the wrenches to come.

The end result was a very relaxed, very-late lunch with family of the equestrian. A large back deck surrounded by trees, late afternoon sunlight mixed with the slightest drizzle, good conversation and wine.

Lovely.

Okay, I'm beat. Three days of recounts and I'm ready for a nap.

You all are probably dozing already. Sweetest dreams.

Lighten Up

Quick mentions of good theater:

I saw PETER AND WENDY and SCENES FROM THE BIG PICTURE last week. Both were excellent. Visually interesting, moving, simple, honest--all the things I like to see on stage.

Both have closed now. You didn't see them? Well get on the ball people!
I also saw MRS. PACKARD, thanks to the wonderful ticket connections of Ms. Lawton. The company was great, the show--not-so-good.

We watched the show on opening night, and by intermission JL and I were both like, "Ehhhh?" Was this theater? It didn't quite FEEL like theater. Nothing particularly THEATRICAL was happening. People were walking on to the stage and speaking to each other, but other than that, well, it felt a little like a living diorama at a historical museum.

We saw Mr. Marks there and I made a promise to myself. "Okay. If he gives this a glowing review then I will once and for all wean myself from all reviews". Back-story: I have never been one of those people who could completely ignore reviews. About anything--not just theater--but movies, restaurants, books, you name it. I grew up in a family that lived and died by the Zagat's guide, so it's kind of in my blood. But I'm trying to stake out a new course.)

A few days later I read his review. It's pretty spot on.

And he is so right--why is the screaming, spitting inmate a pre-requisite for any "asylum scene"?

The worst part was the semi-standing ovation they received at the end of the show. I wanted to stand up and call out about the the injustice:

"Half of you were asleep! What do you think you are standing for now!?"

That said, it was very clear that the actors were doing their best to do committed and honest work. Maybe everyone was. It happens.

On another note--moving to theatrical events that are NOT boring: Wednesday night at Palace of Wonders on H Street (yeah--that's where all the cool kids are hanging out now, didn't ya know? Which means, for once I was ahead of the trend curve) there will be a FRINGE PREVIEW EVENT. Read more about it here.

This is the first of many Fringe related pitches I'll be making.

We started rehearsals on the show yesterday. I perused the listing of Fringe Shows this morning and was impressed by some of the *big issues* being dealt with in this year's festival. Abortion. Arab-Israeli relations. Gender identity.

So let's get this out of the way. CAUTIONARY TALES and TRIXIE TICKLES will not teach you about identity or religion or politics or self-awareness or faith. They are not about an individual's journey to finding their true self, the meaning of life, the meaning of death, or the meaning of menopause. It will not reveal "the secret". It's not a poignant anything.

But it should be fun. And it should make you laugh.

Which, come to think of it, might in fact be the meaning of life after all, perhaps?

Not Quite Toxic

I'm actually stressing a little bit about the fact that I have a birthday in eight days. Not so much about the age thing, really, no. More about whether I want to try to do anything, furthermore if I should try to get up to NY. This should be a happy quandary, not a stressful one.

Don't we just stop celebrating birthdays, eventually?

I just looked at my evite history to see how formally I approached festivities last year. It doesn't look like I sent out an evite.

Did you know Evite has a record of all of the invitations you've ever received? It's kind of cool. A very visual walk down memory lane.

I received my first evite in July 2001. This was right before I moved to DC. The party was being thrown by the sister of the guy I was dating at the time. She lived on the Lower East Side so the idea was that everyone was supposed to bring a dish that reflected their ethnic heritage (as if we all lived in tenements, natch).

That was my one attempt to make cannolis. I don't think they were very good.

Anyhow, it was a fun party even though I didn't really know anybody. Cory Booker was invited but I don't remember him attending. He was friends with the female business partner of the guy I was dating, or else was dating her, or something. It's all kind of blurry now.

The guy I was seeing was a good date, though never cut out to be a boyfriend. Which was fine--I knew I was leaving at that point and had recently watched the demise of my first serious relationship--something I thought I was totally fine with but later it hit me harder than my twenty-six-year-old-bravado-filled self wanted to admit. New guy and I went to a lot of nice restaurants and movies, and kept things pretty light.

One night we were eating at the restaurant in the Hudson Hotel (incidentally, I just googled "restaurant hotel escalator new york 58th street" because I couldn't remember the name of the place but had a very specific image of the escalator. Hundreds of listings correctly identifying the place came up. Google really is an amazing thing.)

We had both ordered iceberg wedge salads with Maytag blue cheese. Maytag was really big then. Maytag mac and cheese. Maytag with poached pears. Maytag martinis.

I was talking about DC, getting advice about where to live, where not to live, and about cool restaurants, etc. as he had lived there for a couple of years in the mid-90s. I think he was telling me about Grill from Ipanema (I've still never been) as he was a big fan of Latin American fare.

I remember I said, "You'll have to show me when you come through town!"

He paused, mid-bite, Maytag perched on his lower lip.

"Ummm, I thought you understood. I really don't do the long-distance thing well. So, well, I don't do it at all."

I did understand. While we'd not quite had this conversation, I was very much on board for a summer romance. But I'd also assumed we would remain some version of friends come fall.

"But, you go to DC on business all the time. You wouldn't want to, like, get dinner sometime when you come through town? You wouldn't call me?"

He chewed his iceberg slab. Swallowed. Smiled. Creamy blue on his bottom incisor.

"Right, of course. I will totally call you. Right! That would be fun! I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I didn't want to mislead you."

Swallow.

"But if we're all clear, then fantastic. Let's absolutely stay in touch. Right. On."

I'm making him sound worse than he was. But the point is this, fellow was a good guy, no--a great guy--super smart, well-traveled, attractive, generous, and a kind human being. He was also one of those eternal bachelor guys. Really, he was, it wasn't just that I wasn't cool enough (maybe it was a little bit that) but I could tell by the descriptions of his last few relationships that he bounced a lot, and that none of the women he'd dated were ever quite right.

Because he wasn't at a stage in his life where he wanted to do any work to make something right.

And why should he? He had a life he liked. Financial security, a sexy job, a great West Village apartment, a busy social life, family and friends, and a full head of hair. He was also from southern california, which I have to say I think had something to do with him being the most angst-free jewish man in New York. It was unusual.
So why make room for someone else?

I was having this conversation with CP the other night (see! I write about you on my blog!) Guys like this will endure for years, decades even, perfectly content with the eternal bachelor lifestyle. And then one day they'll decide they don't want that anymore and without fail--give them three months and bam they'll be engaged. It's like a switch turns on in their heads which makes them decide to commit to something, to try and make something work, that the gains of that might actually outweigh the sacrifices.

Women do it too, I am sure. It just seems like a more classically male thing.

In cases like this, it really, truly is not *us* it is most definitely *them*.

Epilogue:
Maytag man and I exchanged a handful of emails in the first month or so after I moved. We talked on the phone on 9/11. I think that was the last time we spoke.

I just googled him. He lives in Texas where he works for a big company that bought out the smaller company he started. It sounds like a really cool job. He also gives speeches about internet marketing around the country. From the sounds of it, he's not yet married.

He'd make a great catch for some woman in Texas.

If he's flipped the switch.

Gotta Dance

Last Monday I went up to New York for a reunion of my class from the University of Michigan.

Did you know I went to Michigan?

Yeah, University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor. I was a musical theater major in their school of music for two years. Imagine that.

The story of Michigan: when I graduated from high school I was dead set on pursuing a degree in musical theater. I neglected to consider at the time that I was, while perhaps not a terrible dancer, never going to be someone who got paid to dance (not like THAT, silly) or that while I had been singing for years and had some ability--my belt was weak, my vocal break obvious, and my overall endurance questionable.

I'd performed in musicals all of my life, and stubbornly insisted I should continue to do that.

I auditioned and was accepted at Michigan, which actually does have a strong musical theater programs. I think the head of the program thought I was smart and he liked that. I had a really good high school transcript.

Anyway, one year into it I knew that the program was not for me so I spent that second year researching and applying to schools to transfer into my third year. That school turned out to be North Carolina and blahty-blah, it all unfolded from there.

I have stayed in contact with several folks from the Michigan years. Well, one. And a half. Anyhow--this reunion was arranged by a classmate I haven't seen since I left the school in 1995. That was, ummm... a long time ago.

I started having second thoughts about going up a few days before the actual event. BC, who left michigan at the same time I did and also transferred to North Carolina wouldn't let me back out.

"It will be fun" he said.

"How so? These people don't know me! I was a different person back then. What will I have to say to them? What if I don't like them? What if they don't like me? What if they never liked me? Everyone always liked you better, of course you want to go."

BC has known me through pretty much every "different person" I have been since eighteen years old. None of which were that different from the one you know today. He rolled his eyes.

"Come on. It will be fun. You said you'd go. You'll go."

In the end, I went. In the end, it was fun. In the end, I had plenty to say to people and I liked everyone.

BC usually knows best.

The group that gathered (at a bar in the West 50s) included eleven of us, split nearly evenly between gay men and straight women. We had straight men in our class, but most of them have since made their way to LA.

A few are still acting. Laura is the downtown darling of NY and recently made her Broadway debut. Monica is writing some and acting some and producing some, a creative little team with her boyfriend of several years who also writes some, acts some and produces some. She also remains one of the funniest women I know. Greg and Adam both work for big important producer lady. They had fun stories and exciting ideas about the future of New York theater. Danielle has a little girl and a husband and acts and teaches in Allentown, PA (yes, Allentown). Brenda is acting and married to a clown. I mean, really. He's a clown. He travels around and eats fire and stuff. Jason is going to become a therapist. David is tearing it up in tinsel town. And Matt is working to ensure that there is a future for the American musical.

Who did I forget?

Everyone seems (I dare say) relatively content. Struggles abound, sure. Financial, of course. Questions about the future. Heartsickness, here and there. But people are searching, exploring. Everyone looks so much like they did when we were in school.

The same, but better. Healthier, I think.

Shush

I'm losing track of the days. What did I do last week?

I also lost my daily planner. I'm a bit of a hopeless cause right now.

Anyhow, to the best of my memory, I had work and meetings and a trip to Trader Joe's then drank wine with MB in my pseudo-sort-of-backyard on Saturday, and had a meeting then work then the opening of Dead Man's Cell Phone at Woolly on Sunday.

Stunning work all around. Rebecca creates such a beautiful world--I loved the design, and the play is delicate, specific, unexpected--everything I like theater to be.

Jackie-L got us wonderful seats, smack dab in the center so all-in-all it was a great night.

The one low light: about fifteen minutes into the first act a couple is seated during the late seating break. They have the seats directly in front of us, which also happens to be two down from the playwright and director, and right behind a slew of Woolly folks. And they sit down and immediately the woman turns to her date and starts whispering her way through a full fledged conversation.

Jackie-L and I looked at each other. Was this really happening? I think--well, they'll stop once we get back into the dialogue again (I think it was during a quick scene shift) but no. They keep going. She whispers something, he turns back to her and whispers a response.

The incredible hulk like reaction that rises in me at these moments came on fast and furious and before I knew what was happening I had reached up and slapped the guy on the back of his arm (which was wrapped around his girly-girl's shoulders).

I slapped him hard. I think I shushed him too, which is so totally obnoxious.

Now, it is at these moments that I am suddenly aware that I may have made things much, much worse rather than improving anything.

Fortunately this guy seemed to take the hint and actually quieted his girlfriend himself:

Subtext of his own shushing:

"Hey honey, apparently at live theater the people around us DON'T LIKE when we talk about how great dinner was in the middle of the set up for the entire play that we've already disrupted by arriving late and making everyone stand up while we slide into our seats in the middle of the row. I guess SOME PEOPLE want to FOLLOW THE STORY LINE OF THE SHOW. So pedestrian. Now sidle over to me so I can RUB YOUR LEG FOR THE DURATION OF THE PLAY ideally within the sightline of the people behind me who WISH they weren't distracted by every motion in their line of vision but can't help but be taken out every time I RUB YOUR LEG AGAIN AND AGAIN because after all we are at the theater and I DON'T WANT TO STOP TOUCHING YOU EVEN FOR ONE MOMENT because we are so IN LOVE."

Whatever.

Of course at the reception I ran into them over and over and over again.

I have a real problem with this. At the closing show of Dali the woman two down from me started blowing her nose, as I recall--during the third scene which was all difficult and quiet and subtle and delicate. She blew it once and I was like, "Okay, not her fault, she has some sort of upper respiratory thing. She can't help it". But then she blew it again. And again. At this point she was doing sinus maintenance. "It's all clear now, but I might as well blow it a few more times to make sure it stays clear for the rest of the day".

It was kind of unbelievable.

I turned and stared at her. Bored my eyes into her skull. Wished disasters and plagues upon her and her children and her children's children.

She didn't notice. Her date, who was sitting next to me, did.

He looked uncomfortable and glanced back and forth between my death gaze and his unsuspecting sweetheart several times. Then she put the tissue away.

I thought about saying something after the show but didn't think it was the battle I needed to fight.

I know things happen. I know people sneeze and shift and cough in the theater. I am okay with that. I even know that cell phones sometimes get left on and as awful as that is, as long as they get shut off right away I will not wish a lifetime of misery on you.

But when sustained distractions happen. Where you do it once, then you do it again, and again, and again? Yeah, unforgivable.

I didn't really intend to tell that whole story but there it is. More fun stories that I need to tell: about getting hit on by a woman for the first time on friday night and about my reunion with my class from U of M on monday night.

Can You See In The Dark?

Everyone is moving.

I did last month, the equestrian is stretching it out over the next week or so (that’s it, that’s the moniker) and Skids and Katie C. just moved over the hill and dale, a couple of days ago. I was not around to help during the day but later in the evening, when the equestrian got out of his show and I could escape work after eleven hours (no joke—much make up time to be done for hours lost at the beach) we headed over to inaugurate the new place.

It was a pretty bizarre evening.

At some point in the night glow sticks were snapped, the lights went out, and we boogied away to most of the Michael Jackson’s Thriller album.

I’m not kidding.

There was apparently a lot of tension to be released. And those who had actually helped with the move had been celebrating their accomplishments for about six hours. We were kind of late to the game.

The impromptu rave settled down into an Indigo Girls sing along, with Katie C. making itunes selections from the eponymous album and Rites of Passage. Seriously, I haven’t heard these songs in about twelve years. They are so damn good.

Tripping down memory lane indeed. With Katie on melody and MB harmonizing. Hot.

The funny thing was, the equestrian has not spent a great deal of time with this group of people. So I could only imagine that looking at this group, with the infantry himself breaking it down with the lovely Natalia and Stiles on a chair doing interpretive dances--glow sticks in hand all the while--he must be like, “Ummm, is this typical?” Because it would be pretty exhausting if it was.

I can safely say that neither glow sticks or Michael Jackson have ever been involved in our social gatherings before. Really.

It reminded me of an evening at Michigan in my second year when BC and I had Dani over to our apartment for dinner for the first time. I didn’t like Dani at the time, she was BC’s new special friend and I am sure I was more than a little bit jealous. She was sophisticated and beautiful and knew a lot more about Shakespeare than I did.

Anyhow, she’s at our place and we’re showing her around and without really discussing it ahead of time BC puts on the soundtrack to Cats (I don’t remember which of us owned it. I’d like to say it wasn’t me, but I think I’d be lying.) We have a quick moment of eye contact and seriously, start to dance around like cats. Kind of like the cats from Cats, kind of like real cats. We’d never done this before. But Dani is a guest so it’s sort of implied that this is what we do in this apartment and when in Rome, you know, so Dani starts dancing around with us.

To Jellicle Cats.

BC and Dani and I have analyzed that moment many times since then. How she just wanted to be our friend and hey—if this is how we spent our time in our apartment so too would she.

And with us—what ever possessed us? To improvise this strange rite of initiation? On the spot?

So yeah, it felt a little like that last night. Only with much better music. And as far as I am concerned, the equestrian passed with flying colors.

More Than You Needed To Know

I saw HPMelon last night and she alerted me to the meme request that's been volleyed my way.

I kind of feel like most of my random facts have come out in dribs and drabs in other posts, so this might not actually be any new information. You know, they are the things that make me, me. I guess in a way they are also the things that make me not anyone else.

Here goes:

Bloggers must post these rules and provide eight random facts about themselves. In the post, the tagged blogger tags eight other bloggers and notify them that they have been tagged.

1. I have a twin brother. He is six minutes older than me. We look alike if you want us to, or nothing alike if you don't want us to. He got the height genes, which worked out well in the end.

2. When I was in elementary school I had an obsession with great woman history-makers. In fourth grade I dressed up like Amelia Earheart. In fifth grade, Joan of Arc. That year we went to France and I made my parents take me to any town we came within twenty miles of with a Joan of Arc statue so that I could take a picture. I had pencil drawings of Billie Jean King and Nadia Comaneci hanging on my walls. I think I was a budding feminist but sometimes I wonder if I was actually a budding lesbian and just never realized it. I told my friend JT that a few years ago and she told me--years after we were in college together--"Oh, my mother always thought you were going to turn out to be a lesbian". Her mother had left her father when JT was eight to be with another woman. "Why didn't you tell me!? Maybe she knew something I didn't know?" I asked. It's probably for the best that Ms. JT didn't tell me. I think it would have confused me.

3. I love, and will use, every condiment except mayonnaise. In excess.

4. I have never had stitches outside of my mouth. But I have had three root canals.

5. We did not have drama club or thespian society or forensic whatever in high school but we did have show choir, and lemmee tell you, it was *big* (Donna Champlin was a show choir queen at my school, and she just won an Obie, so umm, ha! all you show choir skeptics). I wanted more than anything to be in show choir, but for my first two years I was relegated to being a "pit singer" (we provided back up vocals but didn't get to dance or wear the little spangled outfits). This was usually where they put the homely folk so those two years served as my petri dish for years and years of self-doubt and body issues. I finally made it into the full blown show choir ranks when I was a junior. I have never had such big hair, or worn eyeliner and fuchsia lip stick with the relish I did for those two years.

6. I pick at my cuticles incessantly. If you see me doing it slap my hand away. Seriously. I want you to.

7. I wish I actually-actually spoke another language. Ironically, or rather, prophetically, my mother--who is a foreign language teacher--always told me this would happen. She was right.

8. As a young person I had major issues controlling my temper. It seems the years between age 9 and 13 were the worst. During that time I threw a chair, kicked a hole in my door, dumped ice tea on someone, walloped a classmate with a bottle of glue and punched my best friend in the stomach. I used to think that those impulses just went away as I neared adulthood, but I later realized they were still there, I'd just started taking them out on myself.

Okay, these aren't really factoids, more mini-stories. And most of them are about my childhood rather than the me right now. Ah well. That's what I got for ya.

As for paying it forward, well: Gwenergy, Hanvnah, Joziu, and the Lighting Designer. And anyone else up for a little navel grazing.

In other news, I went to the beach for about 36 hours. It's the first time I've been in the state of North Cackalacky since 1999. We got sun-burned, drank frozen beverages, swam in the pool, waded in the ocean, and drove with the top down. Pretty great time.

Mom Sense

I'm finding it really tricky to write these days. I'm not working on a show. Moving has been the only major event in my life for the past few weeks.

Well, and some other stuff, but that's you know, my life.

And I do, when all is said and done, find it tricky to reeeeaaallly write about *my life*. Because, you know, it's my life.

So. Yeah. Ummm. Anyhow.

I think if I do keep writing I'll need to come up with a new moniker soon and I just don't want to deal with the phone call from my parents "Who is that [such-and-such] you are writing about?"

My mother is funny. She claims to have a sort of sixth sense where she just "knows" things. She says she senses what is coming before it happens. She tells me this and I scoff. Of course I scoff. That's what children were put on this earth for, isn't it? To scoff at the declarations of their parents.

Scoff. What a funny word.

Okay, I am totally stalling here.

Anyhow, when they came down for the move last weekend I exited their company once, ONCE!, to make a personal phone call. One. Single. Phone call. All weekend. Coulda been to MB. Coulda been to HPMelon. Coulda been something professional.

But it wasn't. And somehow, she knew.

"Who's that you are calling Citymouse? Why did you step out of the room? Are you calling a boy?"

Friggin' psychic.

List-less

I am way behind on everything right now (with no excuse—but for a pathetic lack of willpower).

Catching up on my listservs.

Newhilleast…DC_Theatre…directors_lab…BariItaly…dcdrbr…ncsadramagrads…peace_cafe…

And the recently added:

hstreetdc

Blah-ty-blah, type, type, chatter, chatter.

I love the idea of a neighborhood listserv. But sometimes they seem better in theory rather than in practice. The Hill East group was occasionally helpful, sometimes irritating, and most frequently, kind of pointless.

Still, I figured I’d join the H Street group, you know, just in case.

I want someone to tell me when I can go to the Florida Markets and what I should buy there. They are just a hop, skip and a jump away now, and if I cooked, man? If I actually bought produce, and like—FRESH FISH and stuff? Wow, I would be all over that place! I’d be cooking exotic dinners every night! I’d have you all over and I’d make manicotti and get a decent Chianti, and we’d have super garlicky bruschetta and I’d make fresh cannolis for dessert and you’d all be so very impressed.

Yeeeaaaah, But I don’t really cook.

I did make cannolis once. It was a painful experience.

Other than that, I have been helping out with the production of 1776 being put up by Keegan Theater. Yes. 1776. The musical.

Remember, I like musicals, so don’t roll your eyes.

It’s actually quite a lovely show, and I have had a blast working on it and meeting yet another swath of people in this community.