Friday, October 29, 2010


I think this is the first time I made a title before I wrote my post.
Hey you guys. Want this Diet Dr. Pepper I have in my purse?
So how is everyone?

You must all come to Chicago sometime just to see the merry hilarious spectacle this wind makes of us silly walkers. Actual gusts that bluster you into the side of a building. I find this very amusing and giggle while I stagger. I've told Eric to be on the lookout for sales on skiing goggles at Burton so I can wear a pair to keep my eyes free of debris. Like newspapers and dirt. And Walgreenses.
Need my eyes.
Though this morning I discovered a pustule pulsing on the right lower rim of my right eye. Or is it my left eye, cause I was looking in the mirror.
This news will prompt memories in most everyone of the story about Mickey and his sty upon sty upon sty and Robyn saying "Cor stymie!" And reducing everyone to fits. Such an effective story.
I like that you have a dog, The Debra. I especially like that he makes all sorts of mischief and you love him still. This I cannot say for myself and Suprise. Though I still love him still, there are huge swaths of time cut through my nights when I feel shocked by the amount of hatred I can feel for him. Hatred. He enjoys leaving strips of the shower curtain in various locations throughout the house. Also Riley can most always, if she is missing some produce (garlic, leeks, scissors), find it all under the couch.
And he KNOWS. Knows what he is doing. He has learned that it is not my favorite for him to hook his claws into my dresses and yank them off their hangers to the floor. He has learned this so well in fact, that now, whenever he feels the first ticklings of hunger, he immediately jumps off the bed, strides into the closet, takes a seat directly beneath my sundress section and then turns slowly and fixes me with a meaningful gaze. We stare at each other, knowing exactly what the other is thinking. I reach slowly for the green plastic squirt bottle. Suprise, unblinking, reaches slowly up with his front feet to the hems of my dresses. Maintaining eye contact, he SUDDENLYSTARTSSCRATCHINGANDPULLINGMYDRESSESSASHARDASHECAN.
This prompts me, like a starter pistol, to leap from the bed and crash into the closet, shouting "NO!" and squirting him way many more times than necessary. But it bothers me so because he is doing it ON PURPOSE. Just because he is hungry. And I know this would be solved by my taking his sitting beneath my skirts as a signal, and feeding him right away. But this is not something I can bring myself to give in to. I will not be controlled by that pygmie crossbreed bat that I raised myself. I mean- I probably will- but I'm going to put up a nice loud fight for at least a few months more.
My brother bought my a stuffed pillow that is a penguin for my birthday. And it has changed my life. I now sleep at least 5 hours more a night. And practically fall into a coma. Many times I have awoken to find the lower quadrants of the penguin seeping with drool.
Tonight was Halloween. Except it wasn't. But I can tell, in Chicago Halloween starts the 28th of October. Don't know how long it'll carry on.
My new darling friend Nicole was throwing a bash tonight at her ridiculously expansive nooked and crannied apartment off the fancy twitching Belmont stop. Jake and Eric and I knew about this well in advance, and have been muttering occassionally about what our costumes should be for about 2 weeks. The boys decided to go as each other. Which is dear. Cause they are pretty much Daisy and Violet. Or Beavis and Butthead. You know, I've never seen that show. What awful names. Also I shouldn't draw comparisons when I don't know what I'm talking about.
I didn't know what to go as, and had almost decided to throw in the costume towel entirely once I realized I could not, in fact, get the Triceratops costume for babies I saw in an adult medium, when a stroke of brilliance hit me during game 1 of the World Series (this is for the baseball, for those of you who don't know). I could USE my shoddy riduculous haircut for good! I can be my current crush (I guess it's a crush. Having crushes makes me feel silly), Tim Lincecum.
Tim is starting pitcher (though after Wednesday, he may be demoted to water boy) for the San Francisco Giants. And he looks a little like a starved Dickensian orphan who is dying of polio. But something about him....
Jake says he's the ugliest man he's ever seen. Eric I'm sure would have had something to say, except he WASN'T AT THE BASEBALL GAME. And none of us know why....
Anyway, Jake has all the baseball and football suits of all the necessary players, so costume design wasn't going to be a problem.
Well, today, after work, I trotted over to the Hancock Observatory, where they sell cheesecake and offensively large televisions, to get some cash out of the ATM. I do my thing. I receive a receipt. I do not receive cash. I think: groan. But at least, I think, this is good cause the branch is right upstairs and they will correct the problem.
So I stride responsibly inside, receipt clenched- no not clenched, but held neatly so as not to ruin it- in my hand. (Tom says when he needs receipts from me they are most likely scrumpled up in the bottom of my shoe. He's near right.)
So this receipt, being important, was held responsibly flat.
I present it to the teller and explain my problem. I am passed immediately off to a swarthy sticky looking man named Brett Lourdeveaux or something stupid. (Not the Brett part.)
Swarthy Sticky sits me down and says, "Well, that's too bad. I guess you can file a complaint with the bank branch in Skokie and after a long process they might be able to get you your money. But really you should switch to our bank." I tell him that is not why I'm there. He gets in about three more jabs as to why I'm a fool for using Wells Fargo. I decide I hate him. I leave. And they did not give me my money.
So I decide to go home and watch Disc 1 of Season 3 of The Tudors and take a walk down to Great China where I hope to pick up a Chinese Food menu to tack to my wall. I've always thought they were pretty.
I ring up Eric to tell him to have a great show tonight and break a leg. He-being perceptive- realizes this means I'm not coming to the show, and secures me a comp. I think, oh good. I'll go. Then I realize the show starts in 45 minutes and I am a 45 minute train ride, a walk to the train station, and a costume away from being there.
I know what to do first. I strap on as many bras as I have clean. This is standard procedure. Takes only seconds. I yank on the Lincecum shirt Jake has loaned me. I am now in a shirt. And underwear. I cannot go out like this. I decide if I cannot wear a full baseball uniform, I will do the next most logical thing. I apply black tights, black and white striped leggings, Maggie's golden glitter bubble skirt I found in the discard pile at Theatre IV, Maggie's enormous silver hoop earrings with stars attached to the bottoms and my zesty white go-go boots. Also a newsie cap and a houndstooth coat and the thick thick woolen mittens Brett's mom gave me two Christmases ago that are extremely effective and keep your hands as warm as they would be if you were giving two tiny buffalo pelvic exams.
Also raspberry shine lip gloss. So I look astonishing.
I pretend to be Carrie Bradshaw running through traffic in her high heels as I clomp gracelessly down to the train station at an unhealthy clip.
I am, of course, late to the show, but get there in time to see most of Eric's business. He does a great job, and is the most professional one up there, we think.
Then he decides he wants burritos, and lo and behold, there is a Chipotle on the first floor of Second City. Of course.
So I admire my ensemble in the window while the boys eat burritos. Then one of the guys that was in the show with Eric walks in. He sits down with us and proceeds to take everything that we say completely seriously for the next 20 minutes. So that was no fun.
Then Eric leaves to go to 4 or 5 parties he has lined up before the 1 measly party Jake and I have been invited to. We agree to all meet up at Nicole's.
We take the train. Jake does the Sudoku. He does Sudoku, I do crosswords. We are going to crosstrain each other so we can have races. I must keep my wits sharp so I can continue wiping the floor with Adam in this arena when I get home.
The party.
We are near to the first people there. I have no idea who ANYONE is supposed to be except the man who was dressed as Morning Wood. And I did not figure that out by reading his t-shirt.
It is almost completely dark.
I go in the bathroom and look under the sink. I also use the bathroom. I'm not that creepy.
Though as a child I had a family that lived under the sink in my Nana's house. The Lysols. There are details. I will not go into now.
I come out of the bathroom.
Nicole erupts from her bedroom wearing a suit jacket, fishnets, panties and lots of old age makeup. You can always tell those VCU kids. She proceeds to interview me with a microphone she has fashioned ingeniously out of a toilet paper roll and a gutted tennis ball. I allow myself to be interviewed and then ask Jake who she is supposed to be. He says Harry Caray? I don't know how to spell that. I only know he has Xed and is Will Ferrell talking about cheese.
There are also lots of girls apparently going as their own breasts. And a Newsie. And one of the girls who lives there is a costume designer, I remembered that, and she is costumed as what appears to be a transvestite model jockey. Turns out she is David Bowie from Labyrinth.
Nobody knows what I am, but also nobody knows WHO I am, so all is well. I settle in on the couch with a cup of spiced cider to do what I do at parties and watch.
Then a person comes in as Santa Claus. There is no way to know if this is a man or a woman. Also Mulan? And a princess Jasmine who immediately sat down next to me on the couch with her boyfriend who was costumed as Wolverine and began to eat an enormous piece of deep dish pizza she has pulled out of her purse. For this she removed her veil.
Frodo comes in, and removes his Chucks to make things more authentic. Then another roommate bursts out of her room as Lara Croft and does awkwardly low squats for an awkwardly long amount of time in the foyer while she fires her toy light-up guns. This is something she repeats (for just as long) anytime she is addressed by anyone.
Someone else is dressed as the freeway.
Then a very darling boy enters from what is either the walk in freezer or another door to the outside I didn't know about. He is wearing all gray, and looks to be costumed as a successful downtown New York actor. Jake leans over and explains that he is wearing all gray, and has a "T" printed on his t-shirt. So he is......Great. Is clever.
Other featured ensemble members include the blue-haired girl from Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, a Swedish milkmaid on whom you could practically SEE the gangrene forming, and an extremely drunk fairy whose dress was so tight it was performing a double masectomy on her while she lurched and staggered around the room swilling Vitamin Water and whiskey and narrowly avoiding putting people's eyes out with her wing tips.
Also this fairy had a whip. Which was handed to me at one point by a Robin Hood who did not know that Merry Men probably did not get their pantyhose in the women's department, and which I passed off at once to the gender ambiguous Santa Claus. I felt that best.
After that I decided to go home and write it all down.
In the years since I graduated college, I've wished sometimes for the opportunity to do all those college things that people do when they are that age. You know- have wild parties, drink on the porch, sing, dance, mingle. Chat, laugh uncontrollably. (Well that one I do most of the time.)
Cause when I was in college I spoke to no one, looked at no one, and attended as infrequently as possible. So I feel like I want those experiences I was just too shy to attend to. I thought maybe I had missed something I would have loved.
But you know- I think that parties like that are certainly a great experience- so much to see and listen to and so many interesting people doing so many interesting things. And that's great. And I don't know why I just feel useless at parties, unless I'm playing a game, or helping in the kitchen, or having some activity. I don't do well at all with idle chatter. And I thought, while I sat on the couch between Jasmine and the Morning Wood, maybe this just isn't something I'm cut out to revel in. Shy or not. Cause I have tried. And that is ok.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Fudge gopher.

I think my mirror may be a scoch off center.
I'll just move my dresser.
You guys ought to see this. I have:

1. Folded my clothes. And put them in drawers. And Adam, blast it all, is right. Clothes do take up much less space when folded and placed neatly in drawers than they do when flung into a heap on the floor. So that's annoying.
2. Purchased vanilla votives.
3. Purchased ice trays.
4. Put several things back in the closet after taking them out.
5. Kept my bed made. Nevermind that that is because I skipped putting sheets on it and have just been laying on top of the comfortor.

This list is getting boring.

So Chicago is most necessary. I know- I KNOW- I will get cold and furious. And you'll hear about that too.
But right now, it is breezy and there are puppies and houses that look like the houses on the Northside of Richmond, and a Walgreens and all the 7-11s I could ask for.

I threw out 70% of my belongings while packing to move. And tried to throw out about 30% of Adam's and Maggie's, but I am kind enough to ask first when the item doesn't belong to me, and Adam is possessed of less willingness to deem items completely irrelevant that I am.
For example: if a shirt is missing two buttons, he will want to replace them/sew them back on. Or, if the cat is annoying, he keeps it.
Anyway- I managed to trim my belongings down to 2 suitcases. One of full of clothes and one full of Christmas socks. Had no idea I'd accumulated so many. Couldn't be happier.

So we ride in the car for months and months through a list of states that (I swear on Suprise) went like this: Virginia, West Virginia Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Inidiana, Illinois, Indiana, Illinois, Inidiana, Illinois.
This is because my father did brilliantly and purchased a GPS. I immediately christen her Estelle. Estelle is of the opinion that we should take the Pennsylvania Turpike for the majority of our trip. My mother and I are in agreement. But my father has decided Estelle is not to be trusted and her suggestion is no more direct than his idea, which involves shooting straight across to the middle of Kansas and then making a turn for the North.
I am puzzled by this.
But regardless of the difference of opinion, we are on the Turnpike for about 10 miles. During this time we stop at a rest stop- when I discover the real reason for the alternate route. My father cannot abide the idea that he will be forced-FORCED-to pay two dollars more for his Whopper Value Meal at a Burger King on the Turnpike than he would were he not on the Turnpike. He feels as though the goverment is in charge here. And this will not do.
I point out that the potential 6 dollars (as there are 3 of us) that we might end up spending on lunch might still come out to less than the minimum $70 extra of gas money we will spend by taking the Pacific Highway from Richmond to Chicago.
It's like arguing with myself. Absolutely no application of logic. Just stubborn. You can change the minds of my father and myself with the ease with which you can change the mind of a dead mule.
So naturally this debate was LOADS of fun for me. Kind of like debating with Tom about why I should logically get the last Diet Sunkist. But my mom does not like us to debate things in this loud tone of voice. So Dad gets in the backseat and watches a DVD of a Garth Brooks concert while Mom and I jam to Sirius radio to "Mame,"and stuff like that. Was so much fun.
Suprise rode in the car and made one peep. And that was when, as I crossed the parking lot to the car after our stay in a hotel in Richmond, Indiana, he spied me from his perch on the dashboard and he peeped at me. I like to think to say hello.
But I didn't even put him in a cat carrier. He looked out the window from my lap for about an hour, then got down on the floor mat and took a bath, then napped in my armpit, then hopped up on the console en route to spend some time under the gas pedal.
Estelle as well during this time got more and more of an edge in her tone.
Ohio is completely irrelevant.
Looks like a giant set for one of those horror movies when civilization has come to a screeching halt and all life forms have vanished. But before everything gets covered in the dust that always shows up in those movies.
Am upset that I bothered to write that much about it.
All the other states look exactly like Virginia.
Until Indiana, when suddenly there were giant statues of candles and beans and I was happy. So much corn.
Then we rode through that part with the enormous white windmills that are in all photo spreads of people who are attempting to be environmentally conscious.
My father immediately decides he wants one for the front yard.
We enjoy imagining the Christmas decorations we could display with that bad boy.
Hoo-do-hoo-de-hoo, we hit Chicago and a lot of traffic because apparently people in Chicago also carry the disease of being compelled to go out in packs and toil at a high clip up and down the streets for hours on end on foot. But even at 1.1 miles an hour, there is so much to look at, and boats and parks and water. I point out that slanty roof building that I like. I say, "Look Dad- to your left! See that building with the slanty roof?" He says, "Yes?" I say- nothing. Because I don't know what it is. I just know I think it's pretty. And that didn't sound very factually impressive.
We find my house. There are cement garden pots and a balcony full of geraniums leading down to the private beach. Everyone may refer to me as Duchess Audra for the next year. This beach I think we share with the building on the end which is where the really rich people live, but it is so necessary. And Riley is outside looking as per usual. We take things upstairs, we go to Subway, we fall asleep.
The next day we sightsaw. Some sights and stuff. Water, boats. OH-
and the best part of Chicago- there is this turtle at the Shedd Aquarium. When you walk by his tank, you think nothing is in it. Then you peek again- he looks like a stump. It is a 100 pound snapping turtle. Covered in fur that is really algae. Has beautiful french-manicured tonails that are whiter and tidier than mine. He is all underwater except for his nose. And then one of the docents strolls up and tells us that he is 18 years old, and that he is so fat that the aquarium staff want to find out how much he weighs, but he refuses to come out of the water, so they cannot get him on a scale. No one is willing to pick him up because he might actually kill you. So they are attempting to trick him by placing his food only outside of the reach of the water on a ramp. So if he wants to eat, he has to come out. I suppose eventually they will just put his food on the scale and do it that way.
Want it. Would be a necessary item to have stuffed after its' death and use as a footstool.
So then we eat Giordano's pizza. I must have had my boobs out more than usual, for when I ask our waiter for some more ice for my dad, that he likes a lot of ice, the waiter returns with an entire pitcher full of ice and places it in front of me with a sly smile.
I sly smile back, whatever.
Then Mom and Dad returned to VA, and I have no memory of what else happened that night. Probably I went to bed. Suprise slept in the crook of my arm like a doll. Or on my face/in my mouth. Like a doll.
Since then mostly I have been watching improv and drinking Diet Coke with Eric. Also we watched "The Land Before Time." Had no idea it was only 67 minutes long. Feel bad for my parents that it wasn't longer. But it is so good. I just love Spike. Want to be him for Halloween.
Have now developed quite the list of things I want to be for Halloween.
Will have to get Adam to remind me. Know that Dr. Evil is high on the list.
Urg. Will write again soon. Made this entry a bit more mainstream because I just sent the link to a couple of blogger hiring thingamajigs and want them not to feel as though this is in goose hieroglyphics should then read it.


Saturday, July 24, 2010

And chicken!

Alrighty, then.
Today was quite a day. I am going to write it all down. I like writing "quite a day"s down because then I don't have to go to the trouble of remembering them.
First of all.
If ever you are presented with the opportunity, AGREE AT ONCE to house-sit for Bo and Jan.
When I arrived yesterday after camp, it was to find a novel to read, a brand new electric-orange loofah, three tank tops for me to have, and three giant smutty magazines with kittens on the covers.
Also an economy-sized basin of hummuth in the refrigerator that is spinach/artichoke flavored.
I know, Adam and Maggie and Joseph.
Not to mention, three new boxes of Pop-Tarts.
Also all the tv in the world and the softest bed ever. I woke up three times last night and each time noted that the view greeting my eyes was identical. I had not budged an inch.
Also honeybuns and donut holes.
I do take on so.
Anyway. My brother came to the Mill after the show last night to meet up with a bunch of us to go out and get something to eat and to talk to each other. Which I think is a lovely practice.
We all go to Kitchen 64- after much discussion on whether or not Chase would be satisfied with that decision. I declare that I am not concerned with Chase's level of satisfaction in proportion to the satisfaction of the other 13 members of the dinner party, and rationality prevails.
Also, Chase had no prob. with Kitchen 64 to begin with, so I'm not sure why all the hullabaloo.
Perhaps it is because he is the Associate of Artisticness.
We arrive. I am seated next to one end of the table across from my brother with Brett at the very end. I, true to form, immediately scour all my dinner companions until I find a pen (which Hannah always has) and begin the nearest crossword puzzle. Brett immediately announces that he is switching seats with me if I am going to do a puzzle because he wants to talk to people.
In the interest of not being left out, and also maintaining my seat next to the only film director I know, I put the puzzle away. Great sacrifice on my part.
I also agree to order something that the waiter suggested, which is really bizarre for me and has happened twice this weekend. Someone should probably take me to a specialist.
Hannah lets me eat several of her clams? mollusks?
So we leave.
My brother and I go back to Jan's joint, where we collapse on the couch (AFTER FEEDING AND TENDING TO THE DOGS), and flip back and forth between the season finale of Season 3 of America's Next Top Model and an episode of American Gangsters.
Pretty much the same thing.
Then I get my brother what appears to be an oversized doily from Jan's bed to cover up with on the couch and I go to sleep.
Then I woke up.
I help myself to 2 brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tarts and a great big swallow of what very unfortunately turns out to be buttermilk.
Do not drink that.
Though I don't understand why it should taste so nasty. The title would seem to imply pleasant things. Oh well.
Had to get out another glass for the regular milk when I found it. Couldn't bear the thought that some of the buttermilk aura might still be stuck to the glass.
I rap my brother sharply on the ankle about six times and he wakes up.
He is secretly impressed that we are at the home of the Haynes lady. (As am I, but I don't say that.)
We go pick up Brett, for today is the day that Wilson is to be taken to his new home.
We return my brother to the Mill, and proceed directly to Rassie's house.
Rassie is my grandmother, in whose garage the cats were being kept.
I don't know if I have mentioned on here yet, but while I was at the beach earlier this week with my brother and cousin, my mother called crestfallen to tell me that when she had opened the garage door that morning to feed the cats, Suprise had bolted hell for leather out of the garage, down the side yard, and vanished into the underbrush. She called and called and rattled food, to no avail.
She thought this was rather peculiar, because for the life of any of us, for as long as Suprise and Wilson have been staying in that garage, the only way I can extract them from the drywall is with hope and a contortionist. They will not allow themselves to be seen, let alone venture outdoors.
Anyway. I realize to my shock that I might cry. And that happened twice. Two times I almost cried. My heart is becoming exposed, people. But I get over it. Cause as we all know, me and cats just should not own each other.
So we go down there today to get Wilson. I open the garage, start gathering together his litter and food while Brett goes into the back corner with a flashlight to fetch Wilson.
He peeps behind the cabinet where Wilson likes to hide and says, "Hey, buddy."
I experience a pang and say somewhat mournfully, "I'm sad that you still have a buddy and I don't."
Brett reaches his hand down to scruff Wilson.
Then says, "I don't think this is my buddy."
I scamper over. I peep.
Definitly Suprise. Vacant and loopy as ever. Happy as a clam to see us.
I exclaim something and scoop him up and nuzzle him and am so happy even though I am simultaneously thinking, "now I have to keep paying for cat food."
So Brett goes out beating the bushes and calling for Wilson.
Oh well. I find it odd that my mother would mistake Wilson for Suprise, and do not like to think of her beginning to descend into senility, but what else to make of it, I don't know.
We get in the car to buzz over to my parents house, because Suprise has this trick where, if you scoop him up like a baby, he will go completely limp and lay in your arms like a dead person. I am gleeful at the sight this will be as I mount the steps to my parents' front porch with what appears to be Suprise's dead body in my arms. I realize this is hateful of me.
So we go. I ring the bell. I hear my brother growl from inside, "It's Audra. And Brett. AND SUPRISE!"
My mother joyfully flings open the door and says, "You found him!"
I explain what has happened and that, unfortunately, it was Wilson who escaped.
She shakes her head and tells us that she is SURE that the cat that ran out was black.
I believe her, cause she is a smart woman, and no one wants to think that their mother is hallucinating or on mushrooms.
But this is clearly impossible.
At this moment my father pipes up from behind the newspaper, "There's been a stray cat sniffing around the garage over there. Maybe he got stuck in the garage one time when the door was up."
I latch right onto this theory. This is clearly AWESOME.
We get back in the car. Suprise fiddles with the radio, has a coffee.
And sure enough, there is Wilson. Happily miserable stuffed behind the turkey fryer.
So my father saved the day.
We rip Wilson out of the catacombs of the garage and shuttle him straight away to his new home.
Wilson, who LOVES to complain, bitched and howled and gasped and woed himself all the way there. Until the instant I turn into the driveway of his new home. Which is lined with poplars and has several very expensive looking cars in the circular driveway. Wilson has always been one for pomp and snoot.
Then I sleep for an hour and a half.
Then I lose all my hair down the drain in the shower.
I wear my diamonds I have on borrow from Robyn. Obviously.
We watch 10 or 12 of the 48-Hour Film Project Films.
I liked:
1. Ours was good.
2. When the man jumped onto the jet ski with absolutely no pants on.
3. The way that animated gray tubby superhero ran down hallways.
It was neat to be able to identify places around town that you recognize in the movies.
I was going to go into more detail about that but now I don't feel like it.
Anyway, the show was once again great fun tonight.
Tom and Paul have almost convinced me that I am going out of my mind because SOMEBODY- and it MAY have been me- kept putting my Snapple back in the fridge. I did not think it was me.
They swear it was. But then I saw Paul being crafty with my snapple by the balcony railing. So we shall see.
Tom informed me that he would rather not go to dinner at Robyn and Ginnie's if I was going to go too.
And Susan and Jody and John Moon and Jeff M. and Dee and Scott Melton was there-always good to know his whereabouts.
And mostly, as we all frisked/staggered into the green room after curtain call, we were greeted by the sight of two very tall, very businessish looking police officers.
I am at once certain they have tracked me down for my expired license plate tags.
But I am wrong.
I'm going to have more milk.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

I'm going to the Jefferson in the morning.

I am a film-maker.

The skills one needs to be a film-maker are as follows:

1. taking dictation.

2. driving a car.

3. shutting the fuck up Honaker.

This morning- well, last night- began the 48-Hour Film Project Thingy that Matt has been so gung-ho about for months now.

We had a staff meeting to toss out ideas about a month ago.

That was fun. I ate pizza and watched Jeopardy and told stories about my cats.

But yesterday was the big day, as we were presented with our film genre at 6pm. Matt sent Hannah "in his stead" (when he said that I really knew this was serious), and she sat at a small table in The Camel bar on Broad St. while she waited for the announcement.

A girl came and sat with her. Hannah struck up a conversation, which was going well until Hannah mentioned that she thought the "Twilight" movies were ok, but she was not a huge fan.

The girl then refused to make eye contact with or speak to Hannah for the next fifteen minutes.



We are assigned Film Noir.

Which I know means black and white with detectives. And The Maltese Falcon.

That's all I know.

So I shoot Matt a voicemail with the first idea that pops into my head, which involves Leann Rimes and a copyright infringement, and then I do my show.

After show, I am requested at Matt's house to assist with the script writing.

Brett and I hustle straight over. It is a good thing we have hurried because immediately upon our arrival we are herded directly into Matt's bedroom and made to watch a SPARC promotional video. We (being me) are still not clear on exactly why we watched this.

Ben shows us his postcard of himself as a turkey having coffee in Joe's Inn.

I suggest that we maybe write a script?

So Ben and Hannah leave, I situate myself on the couch between Matt and Brett and proceed to toss out words and periodically go into the freezer for an ice cube.

I also eat Matt's entire box of cheese crackers. I did this directly after he said, "Audra, don't eat all my crackers."

But we write a whole script. By 2:30 it is done. 17 lines. Which I feel might be a bit spare, but I am loudly overruled. And I don't care anyway, because I have had a FOUR drink from 7-11, which Jacob Pennington says means I have fallen on hard times.

A FOUR drink is about the size of a regulation Monster energy drink, and is half energy drink, 12% alcohol.

I can stomach the taste, and one of them tastes a little like Hawaiian punch, so I have one from time to time.


1 can of partial alcohol. I am very amused that I can drink 7 entire bottles of Firefly vodka and perform on beam at Olympic trials, but I cannot drink one of those FOUR drinks.

Oh well.

Anyway, I go home, have a nice chat with Lola, and turn it.
Because Herculean Hannah is picking me up at 7 this morning to begin work on the film.
Promptly at 7am I begin receiving phone calls and messages from Matt and Hannah.
She picks me up. We drive to SPARC office, where Matt Polson is already arrived and very obviously ready to be a film director. You can tell by his tall black socks.
I have donned my enormous beige overalls and my pink wife-beater. I feel that this makes me look very filmish.
We arrive.
I am immediately dispatched to Martin's to pick up a breakfast pizza and 24 Diet Cokes.
Which- I carry. Alone. I am awesome.
I dispatch myself back to SPARC. Still just Matt and Hannah. I fool around on Jason's computer for a while. I design the business card for the detective character in our film. I whine and complain about being cold until Hannah sends Matt home to get me a sweatshirt, among other things, because, she says, she does not want to have to hear me whine about it all day.
Knows me. Still loves me. Feel very blessed to have so many people loving me despite all my whining and hanging up on people.
Hannah and I have a lovely discussion about appreciating life, and then in short order Matt arrives, followed by Ben and that blond gal who bartends at Joe's and is very comfortable frowning.
I screech into the lobby asking Matt where is my hoodie, he screeches back that it is in his bag.
So I stride confidently into the lobby and open this bag. I find inside only a rumpled black men's t-shirt. I am suspicious of this. What a poor choice for warmth. Also, it will probably fit snugly round my hips, which I hate in my loungewear.
I sniff it. Smells like person.
Obviously came out of the dirty laundry pile.
So I pace around the lobby railing to Hannah and anyone within earshot that I cannot POSSIBLY be expected to keep warm in this.
Ben walks through. He stops. Looks. Says- "Did you go in my bag?"
I say, "oops."
He takes his shirt back and says, "It's CLEAN."
Oh well.
I am really off on the wrong foot with Ben so far today because already he has shown me the sign he printed up based on my design for us to stick onto Hannah's car. I said I thought it should be shaped like a cloud. He puts it away in his bag (that I dare not re-enter) faster than anyone has ever put anything away.
I think he must have been talking to Adam about my fiddling and causing trouble.
I wouldn't have messed it up.
Oh- and Matt had actually done well. Brought me a warm red zip-up jacket. That didn't smell like person.
Hannah braids my hair four times while Jacquie tells us a story about guns and depression and then we all form a caravan for the ride out to Ali's house.
I call Tom on the way to inquire after the health of a friend of mine.
He answers the phone, "Haiti people."
I won't go into this, but just LET ME POINT OUT- HE DID NOT SAY HELLO. Who does that.
So we get there, we make a movie, Hannah and Ali and flop on the bed like we are having a sleepover and try not to giggle and stay UTTERLY SILENT as Jacquie O does some fabulous acting in front of a mirror.
It feels much like my 10th grade history project when six of us decided to make a video, only slightly more high tech.
There were the three girls on the bed watching and taking VERY IMPORTANT SERIOUS NOTATIONS while Ben, Chase and Matt handled all the manly equipment and directed the actors in hushed tones.
At one point Hannah and I found ourselves huddled in the fetal position behind Ali's bed trying to take our notations and be completely silent and NOT BE IN THE SHOT.
There will be a photo forthcoming.
Then we all drank Diet Coke and ate pasta salad that Brigitta's mother has made and brought over in a pitcher. To each his own.
Chase handles the boom. Which involved a lot of him standing in the shrubbery and being very close to Matt Polson.
Ali's job is to bang the clapper.
I write things down, and so does Hannah, until Hannah has to do some of the acting, and I do Hannah's writing and my writing.
Ben paddles me in the fanny with a piece of posterboard, which I cannot handle because of the dream I mentioned earlier.
Matt's brother arrives and says no word to anyone for six and a half hours.
Then we have a wrap. Everyone applauds, which I find to be a little silly.
Movie-making is the biggest bunch of nothing to do I have ever heard of. If you are one of the actors.
Jacquie O should be kept under close surveillance until tomorrow, as during the course of shooting I think she had up to 20 aspirin in her mouth.
I'm tired of talking about this now.
I'm supposed to go over tomorrow and see the finished product.
The show was lots of fun tonight.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Lola loves me more than you, Adam.

I should really clean out the litter boxes.
I now have 2 clean wife-beaters. Thrill.
I hope Richard is ok. Received a violent panicked text last night re "Jeopardy."
Which I unfortunately missed.
Tom loves cats. Didn't you know?
Its' name is Buster. It ought to be Esther. Except for the fact that Tom claims to have seen his penis.
Today I lied to 30 children. I think it was a helpful lie though.
And then I almost won a prize for wearing a Christmas sweater and brushing my hair, but then ALISON GILMAN and MEG CARNAHAN were late to SPARC play practice, and the prize went out the window.
During SPARC rehearsal, Jason was clearly heard to proclaim to the children, "DON'T PRACTICE!"
Direct quote.
It is useless to get a Big Gulp full of tea. Because it is not carbonated, you can drink an entire Super Big Gulp of tea in the time it takes to walk a block and a half. And that is if you are pacing yourself. Waste of money.
Chase has given up-- excuse me-- "cut out" soda. Also bread in restaurants. He feels this will help him with his choreographer skills.
I just think it helps him look more expensive.
If anyone is looking for them, the Theatre IV/Barksdale Theatre production meetings have been hiding in the women's dressing room at the Barksdale.
Felix Gotschalk is a riot. Sings. Debonair. Wears fedoras- or did until all of the camp girls were so overcome with passion by the sight of him in his fedora that they literally began flocking behind him into the men's bathroom. Such is life.
Also his name is Felix. People whose names include an X are obviously going to be devastatingly attractive. Unless the X begins the name. Like "Xander." Please. Trying too hard.
I dreamed last night that Ben Hill grabbed me and kissed me and then Rich got all excited and happy and Suprise had surgery and there was a monsoon.
Joseph will enjoy that dream.
So, as follows naturally, I will go around all day today being attracted to Ben.
You know how you have a romantic dream about someone and then for the whole next day, your mind is convinced that you have a crush on them?
Considered texting Ben to let him know, but have thought better of it. As he is probably out on his back porch using his table saw and I don't want to alarm him.
Everybody should go see his art though. It's up in Joe's Inn. Very pricey.
I figure if I do him enough favors, he might consent to make me a wallet-sized one for free. Of True Blood.
I did a reading the other day. About murder, sex, homosexuality and orange juice. Run of the mill. It was a huge comedic success. Who knew.
During the reading I did not do the following:
1. fall down the stairs.
2. any of my blocking.

But I think I am forgiven.
Mushrooms are good, but useless.
Happy Friday everybody.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


Today I went to the barn.
First though, I woke up on the couch. Where I had no recollection of falling asleep.
It was bizarre. I was home by myself last night, tidying up (which is a new thing that Adam taught me), watching tv, petting the cats, and I discovered a leftover JOOSE in the fridge.
So I drank it while I did some internet research.
One drink.
And BOY WAS I DRUNK. I have no idea how that happened off of one measly drink, but boy whee.
Woke up this morning on the couch with a Chanello's box to my right with an untouched tomato/pineapple pizza inside.
Woke up this morning, did not shower, cause who showers before going to muck out stalls, purchased Benadryl, H2O, and sunscreen, and drove out to the barn.
(I am KILLING on kid's Jeopardy, by the way.)
There are so many horses there. Just around every corner there are three more. Big ones, small ones. I looked immediately for the one that looked like a hirsute shoebox who was named Snickers. Did not see him.
Then found him standing tethered to a low fence waiting to be ridden. He has received a SEVERE haircut and now looks like a pony instead of walking underbrush.
All the ponies were in and out all day because the riders alternate between taking trail rides, doing ring work, and receiving lectures on horse care. I followed Jan around for most of these lectures and learned how to do things like wrap horses' legs when they are going to be traveling. On the resume.
All along the back fence are tied a long row of miserable ponies. It is too hot. There is Thunder, who is from all I can see an actual albino. His lips are very chubby and crinkly. So I squeezed them.
Then there was George, a bay who recently underwent shoulder surgery and hates everyone. I stood next to him and stroked his neck and he switched his tail and stamped his front foot over and over again. Cannot really blame him. If I had just had surgery, I would prefer to be in my room on my Percocet to being roped to a fence standing in dung being fretted over by first graders.
Also Elmo, who looked dumb as sour cream and who likes to keep his front foot inside his water bucket.
Spotlight is a pinto who sufferes seasonal allergies and as a result has to be kept in her room and not ridden.
Oreo is a wee pony about the size of a house cat who was very well behaved even though he had to stand in the sun all day.
For a moment, I thought I saw one of the campers riding Ashley, who is Nora's snow white horse, but then I thought, NO, it couldn't be. Ashley is much more suited for a career as lawn sculpture than she is to trot in circles with some grimy child on her back.
I learned that a horse barn is essentially a gigantic litter box. Jan showed me w here the horse-sized litter box scoopers are, and I was put on poop patrol.
Which surprisingly doesn't smell bad. There is a definite technique one must acquire though.
I saw Merlin, who is a 35 year old pony whose spine is like a steak knife and all but exposed for you to sit on. But he has no idea he is 35, which makes him in horse years like 670. He is brisk and quite lovely and looks Arabian to me though that is not a very educated guess.
Then I got to go in with a brush (I tried to pick on that wasn't a Brillo pad) and groom Bert.
Bert is so named because he belonged to Burt Bacarach. He is a LARGE Thoroughbred. He is 18. Burt B. decided he didn't want equine Bert anymore after equine Bert grew out of running races.
Bert was so hot. He has a fan rigged up in the ceiling of his stall and he places his face directly in front of the fan. His bottom lip dangles open lethargically. His penis keeps peeping in and out of it's- well, it's where it goes. I don't know if that has anything to do with the heat.
Anyway, I go in and bolt the stall door shut behind me and brush him until he looks like a dining room table. He is a good boy. Nora is going to ride Bert later today in a horse show.
There is a beautiful chestnut horse in a stall next to the horse showers. His stall is covered in large white posterboard signs saying DO NOT FEED THIS HORSE ANY SNACKS! ANY SNACKS AT ALL!
I ask Jan why this is. I think perhaps he has special dietary needs. Jan says he is too fat.
Then I start to feel nauseous again, perhaps from Benadryl on mostly empty stomach, and go home.
I take money to the costume shop.
I come home, make an annoying phone call (I wasn't annoying- the person I called was- fancy that, Tom), work some more on my crossword and take a nap.
I don't know what to do about myself. I will figure it out. I have lots of friends and postcards with ducks on them.
Adam- btw- Megan read the duck postcard, and halfway through the reading looked up at me with a quizzical expression and said, "Dickmaster?"

Sunday, July 4, 2010

blue nails.

Hello all.

Happy 4th of July.

I think I have finally happened upon the ideal way for me to experience the fireworks.

Riding one of those winged genital worts from Lord of the Rings around and amidst the fireworks with industrial strength earplugs in.

That's what I'd like to do.

Lola is my new best friend.

I can only assume this is because in lieu of Adam and Maggie, she has gravitated toward my dark head of hair. And is squinting really hard to make the rest look like a 6 foot man.

Caught up on "True Blood" last night.

One of the reasons I love Hannah so much is that she allows me to attend her parties and sequester myself in the tv room and drink a Pepsi and watch my tv and not speak to anyone.

She understands that I had a WONDERFUL time doing just that. And I love knowing my friends are nearby in the next room. Enjoy overhearing conversations.

Lisa Kotula came in and watched with me. She was an excellent co-watcher.

Also Mark Persinger and Jon Perez made cameos and then exited with beautiful timing.

Sound of Music closed today. Good thing too- I worried every night about Maria singing on the fault line of that mountain range. Narrowly avoided catastrophe.

I just really wish Frodo and Samwise were not in Lord of the Rings. What a shitty editing job.

I must tell Hooker that I wore my new orange turtle shirt to 4th of July dinner and my dad showered it with compliments.

I think Adam and Maggie are in the Grand Canyon.

I really hope Jan calls me tomorrow or the next day and lets me go to horse camp with her.

I've been absolutely PINING to go riding. Mount up, pick the hooves and all that.

Do not know where I could go trail riding around here for not much money.

I should stroll down to the police station and harass them into letting me have the summer job of playing with their police ponies. You know- the ones they keep in that shed under the I-95 overpass at Chamberlayne.

Apparently some Splenda comes in packets that are not so much paper as they are wool or corduroy. Had a packet of this yesterday. Felt wasteful and disrespectful tearing it open.

I'm doing a reading about the internet and acting and bedsheets next week. Or the week after. Sometime.

I'm excited about that.

Free shot glass Slurpee day is coming right up.