Nothing useful is said in this post.

I think I have to make an appetizer. I am going to check my voicemail right now and see.

I think I will leave my Christmas cards up for a few months. They are pretty. I don't have to make an appetizer. I am welcome to make dessert if I want to but can mostly just bring myself. 

I'm starving.

I have decided not to spend any money for a few months if at all possible. 

I have a dirty house.

And another nosebleed.

My kitten would make an excellent vase.

I might watch Days of Our Lives this afternoon. I think it's gotten pretty far-fetched, but I still hold out some hope because of the storyline that got me hooked in the sixth grade when Carly? was buried alive and running short on air. 

I'm just full of nothing to say.

I hope Maggie and Adam can take care of our cats this weekend. I haven't asked them yet. But they could stand to starve for four days. They're getting a bit portly. 

I look forward to more daylight. 

The wind is spectacular today. I laid in bed for a couple of hours and pretended to be Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Cathy was kind of a spoiled priss and no fun, so I don't typically pretend to be her.

Vicki is fattening Vera up.

The sky looked like an oysters' throat this evening. I thought that, and then I immediately thought that I sounded like I was writing a paper on something I disliked. That is the sort of comment that snows professors into thinking you are creative and earns you an A+. 

I wonder what it feels like to have a thick upper lip.

I cleaned today. All day. In the rehearsal hall. I was spattered with rodent fecal matter and mummified toad sperm from the late 70's by the time I finished and had blown through a box and a half of tissues. And it now looks as though NOTHING HAPPENED. Also four nosebleeds. Tom says I need to go get a shot of Vitamin K. But I don't know if they do that and feel pretty sure Tom just wants me to get a shot.

It's weird to have boobs touching your chin.

When I asked a very sleepy, somewhat tipsy Brett last night where I should put away his box of pictures he answered, "In the makeup closet scroot." He has  no memory of this. I repeated it over and over to myself in my head for ten minutes before I fell asleep to guarantee my own memory of such a phrase so as to be able to remind him in the morning. 

My kitten is now sitting on my chest and I can no longer see the computer screen.

Chase thinks he is going to make me go see Spring Awakening. I have told him he is welcome to try. He got me to go see something I wasn't too keen on seeing several years ago but I was heavily medicated at the time and remember nothing except for Raisinets and watching two members of the spot-op crew necking in the fly rail.

Joseph is in Tennessee meeting members of his beau's family. They started off with Putt-Putt, advanced to pitching Joseph at the mini-mall en route to Walmart for a two hour holiday family portrait session and now (after retrieving Joseph) are off to Dollywood.  This is kind of like me going to a cocktail party, a bridal shower, and filling my pants with mayonnaise. 

I'm going to rent some "Office." Funny.

to remember Christmas

So for Christmas, I got out of bed, tramped into the front room, sat on the floor amidst cat toenails and wrapped presents. I had purchased two spiffy rolls of paper- one with snowmen, and one with penguins I think, but left that in my car so ended up using the santa paper from last year. This is fine. I will just use snowmen and penguin to wrap all of this years' birthday gifts. 

I had ravaged Target looking for a gift bag. Just a plain one. All of the gift bags this year sing and cook punch and tremble and cost $2.99. Unnecessary. So I found a silent gift bag with a garish poinsettia on it and lots of gold brocade. Purchased it. Discovered Christmas morning that it was too small for what needed to go in it. Brett wanted a real live hourglass for Christmas. Which, when he announced this at 11 pm on the 23rd, prompted visions of a 4 ft. tall mahogany thingy that would surely set me back more money than I like. But turns out one can purchase hourglasses for pretty cheap and they only come up to mid-shin.

However.

This hourglass stops every minute or so. Which completely defeats the purpose, though I feel lends character.

Anyhow, that is what was supposed to go in the Christmas bag. But it didn't, so I just gave it to Brett wrapped up in whatever that stuff is that's supposed to keep it from breaking.  Not bubble paper. I know EXACTLY what that is. 

I realize this is a narrative. Entirely uncalled for. But I suppose it will help me remember.

So we went to my Hopewell house and had a lavish brunch featuring egg casserole, sausage balls, me squirting something green (don't remember what it was now) all over the fresh tablecloth, blueberry dough chunks, and strawberry danish. Then we opened presents. 

My mother has an uncanny ability to know when I am running low on things like body wash and razors. Also my brother got me a family sized bag of Twizzler nibs. I'm almost done. Also received a sharp red wallet featuring a pudgy cat which turned out to be an owl, but I like it just as well.  Then Brett went to sleep, my father went to sleep, my mother boiled eggs and I harassed my brother for a couple of hours. I love doing that. 

Then we set up the ping pong table in the garage. I skunked Brett, was completely decimated by my brother without his ever having to shift his weight, then my father shamed us all. When it was my turn to play my father he allowed me a fifteen point advantage from the beginning. He won 21 to 17. So the next time he played left-handed. I don't want to talk about that.

Then Jazz got into my lap at left all her hair on my shirt. So I duct-taped myself off. 

Oh and THEN. THEN my mom decided it would be a good idea to sing Christmas carols. Brett and my brother were fairly perky about this. Brett had brought his flute, my brother plays guitar and my mother is Donna Reed so anything like gathering her kith and kin close to her bosom round ye olde pianoforte and caroling whilst the candles glow and bathe us in warm familial light is right up her alley. My father and I lurched in and he put his feet up. I fortunately know most of the carols from memory so was able to do several crossword puzzles while this went on. My father calling out helpful suggestions like, "Nancy- push the buttons on the piano softer! I can't hear the guitar!" 

Some of those songs have  A LOT of verses. 

My father was so pleased with the proceedings that he took it upon himself to drive down to his place of business and make photocopies of all the songs he felt we had sounded good on so that we could do a repeat performance later that evening at my aunt's house.

So we went there. Lots of old old people I had never seen before. And one minorly old woman wearing an electric blue crushed velvet jumpsuit riddled with gold beads. I had to hold her plant while she came down the stairs. Highlights of this excursion include: Ted- the orange Manx easily mistaken for a Buick and the rum cake sent by my church choir director that was really just a platter of rum sprinkled with flour. This choir director is a glorious southern lady with strawberry blonde hair and one son who plays the saxophone very well, moved to Vegas and married a Japanese woman. All this is fine with the exception of the fact that due to the Japanese influence, her first grandchild has been named SACHI, which she is not too sure about. Maybe she makes her cakes that way to forget. 

My grandmother divvied up her Bingo winnings from the assisted living facility amongst her three grandchildren. Which I think is just great. She apparently smokes everyone there in the Bingo. 

Ahem.

Kamikaze.

Also there is another typo. It should be "with" not "was."

I must now take a shower. I am going to the movies.

My contacts are too old.

Well it is Christmas Eve and today I saw one hundred chickens and took their eggs.

My hamster is dead. Southampton. But he was a kamakazi (I will look up how to spell that and re-visit this post if that is incorrect. I abhor typos). I found his stiff little butter colored corpse prone and grimacing outside my bathroom door one morning last week. As he only set me back $5.99 I was not overly put off by this. I chucked him in the dumpster, which apparently was a horrendous social gaffe because several people who have heard that are appalled that he was not interred properly. Where would I inter him, I ask you. Beneath Patterson Ave.?

Anyhow- the cats got him. And the little fart would die the evening after I had just gone to all the trouble of cleaning his cage. 

He disconnected the roof of his cage just enough to squeeze out and leap 8 feet to the floor. I had heard some scrabbling and squalling coming from the sitting area during the night but after a cursory inspection of the cage (which appeared to be intact) I figured the cats had found a mouse. 

Nope.

Oh well.

I have 10 feet of multi-colored icicle lights sitting on my table. I wanted to hang them up. But have discovered that tape and staples are not ideal for this. So they are just sitting there. Maggie very cleverly purchased a rosemary bush for her apartment to serve as a Christmas tree. I doodled off to Ukrops intending to cleverly copy her and decided against it as rosemary bushes cost more than I think they should. Even though I reckon Brett would probably shave it off into his omelets and stuff. 

Oh but back to the chickens. I went down with Joseph and his beau today to visit his veterinarian friend in Prince George. She has a farm. On which she keeps a passel of cats, 14 dogs who are all beige, 2 vultures, several hundred cattle, 2 horses (one of which we call Janine after Janine Serresseque) and 100 chickens. Actually. They are the flashy spotty chickens, not the white ones. Which determines the color of their eggshell. I tried hard to pick up and pat the chickens but they don't cotton to being cradled. But we got to get the eggs out of the nests. So much fun. That sort of thing just makes my day. 

Also I went to a Christmas party over the weekend hosted by a very kind woman. This year she hosted the party from her recliner with her feet propped up wrapped in bandages and covered in ice due to her alighting from her vehicle directly into a drainage ditch and dropping her baby onto the lawn. And for those of you who know her- this is NOT the sort of baby you drop onto the lawn. But all is well. There were green beans there covered in something brown and crusty. 

Also Richard was there was a snazzy devilish little earring in the form of a christmas bulb. I wonder if we could rig that lighting up somehow. We'd probably have to convince him to spend the majority of they party attached to an extension cord and only able to travel a certain radius from the socket. 

That would be fun now that I think on it. We could dangle canapes just out of his reach. I don't like that word- canape. 

There are oversized neon rubber watches on sale in Nordstrom.

There is some woman on the Food Network who appears to have spent several hours coloring her entire body in orange highlighter. Don't know what her name is, but watching her is really something. She makes all her guests do the actual cooking and wears keyhole tops so you can see her glowing boobs dangling over the gravy boat. 

I just sneezed on the cat.

Bobbie

I just went to see The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. Without referencing the website, I'm not sure where the parentheses should begin in that title so I'll just leave them off. 

I think "Whould" would be a much more entertaining spelling for "would." Like "Should." Makes it seem more important and British. Like Stewie saying Cool Whip. 

The Debra was superb as always. She toddled out in her cast and wrap dress, uttered "Oooh!" and received exit applause. I sat with Jason and Joe Pabst. Sort of. Heading up the row was the Dame Lady Sophia Christ. With her mother the Virgin Erin. (This is seeming sacriligious. It is not meant as such.) Then Jason sat next to Erin, then a seat betwixt us heaped with a sack of diapers, hypo-allergenic formula, sweaters, throws, burp towels, sedatives, an extra pair of navy blue crushed velvet sateen baby britches and heaven only knows what else. Then me. Then a chair with all of my stuff and Joe's stuff. Then Joe. He recommended the chair as the buffer between us. I'm not sure why. Perhaps he assumed I was going to take a turn for the crabby halfway through Hark the Herald Angels Sing. 

I saw Ginnie. We met eyes. I think we all know what that means.

Joy was wearing a plaid gown fresh from the archives of what Barbie didn't get around to wearing during Christmas 1952. 

My favorite part was the wrangling of the lambs. 

We are watching "The Office." I haven't decided yet if I am going to think that is funny or not. 

I saw some very festive Christmas sweaters. In subdued MAN tones. 

I discovered that I am apparently singing at a wedding next week with Phil Whiteway. ON THE RESUME.

I received a poinsettia yesterday from one of my jobs. This was very exciting to me because I had a plant once two years ago that died immediately, and then Brett accidentally stole a plant which we kept in our house for five months unwatered because it was sitting behind the Miles Davis Jackal or the Antelope or some sort of exercise machine it is difficult to see behind. Anyway, Michael came over to house-sit for a weekend and discovered said plant and set it up in the bathroom, where it has flourished and languidly stretched its vines down around and into the toilet bowl. This is very upsetting in the middle of the night. Good news is, it is obviously a plant that only needs watering twice a year. Perfect. 

So anyhow, I was pleased pink with the poinsettia. Then I was informed by all of the people at the Mill who know everything about gardening and nutrition that poinsettias are highly poisonous to animals and babies. I asked if they were also poisonous to adults and was given a LOOK.

I had decided to leave the flower out on a low table anyway and take my chances with the cats dying a horrible death (a death which would have been their own nosy fault) but then researched online and discovered that the toxicity of poinsettias is highly overrated. At worst it will just rip out the lining of one's digestive tract and cause some mild vomiting. This is something I can live with.

I guess I'll stop typing now. Oh good tomorrow is Saturday. That is when I get to squeeze all the babies' thighs.

forgot a title again.

I found my soft black giant sweatpants. I was glad. I didn't know where they were because one morning I realized Brett probably really didn't like my clothes all over everywhere so I got up right before dawn and stuffed everything in the closet. I should wash them now.

I really like Janine's blog.

Tomorrow night is a birthday party for Brett and Jason. It's a "surprise" for Brett even though he knows so far that there is a small gathering of friends in honor of his birthday. He just doesn't know where. He does know what time. I'm not very good at that sort of thing. Must be because I would be horrorstruck to receive a surprise birthday party, so I don't go about arranging them for others. 

Well, maybe I would. What do I know.

I like how cleaning my house makes me feel. When it's done. Not during.

My hamster is still trying to escape.

I really like those kahlua milk drinks Robyn made for me. Really like. 

Uh huh.

Ok, so tonight ChAli, Brett and I made what was our second attempt to scoot up to D.C. to see "Next to Normal." Or "Almost Normal," "Pretty Normal," "Abnormal," "Normally," and several hundred other not-the-right-names we came up with while we couldn't remember what it was called.

When we tried to go last weekend we got off to a tearing start about 48 minutes late because Ali Thibodeau dyed her hair (long story), got stuck in crawly traffic that allowed us to reverently goggle at the Bass Pro Shop and Evangelical Laudatorium for about 20 minutes while we idled past, and ended up giving up in Frederickburg and having steak and what Ali was pretty sure was lobster dick at the LongHorned Beef Fancy Palace or somewhere up in Fredericksburg. This was all very entertaining in and of itself due to the extraordinarily competent greeter at the restaurant door, who when having asked for and been given my name-spelled out, raised an eyebrow and said, "Nuh uh, give me another one, that one's too hard." I merely looked straight at her long enough for her to realize that I was furious so she looked past me to Chase who volunteered "Ted." This seemed to be feasible. Ali and I got violently ill from stuffing warm wheat buns down our gullets and didn't enjoy a drop of our dinner. There was considerable debate as to the sexuality of one of the nearby waiters. Much of Brett's transvestite theory was based on said individuals mammoth breasts which were only apparent when he/she was standing upright. Trouble was, he/she seemed very intent on leaning over the table he/she was waiting on and tickling their rolls with he/she/it's whiskers. Mystery never solved. After we had decided on the pictorials for the Richmond Theater nude holiday calendar we journeyed home, well satisfied with our evening.

Then we went tonight. 

We left promptly at five. Five fifteen- we had to go to MacDonalds. We got there, no fuss.

The Arena Stage is located in the basement of the Marriott Hotel. We were not expecting this.

Who has arenas in the basement after all. So after we secured our tickets, Chase and Brett strode manfully out the door in the direction of the hotel bar. The whereabouts of which they were completely ignorant. Brett finally asked someone, as he is wont to do (I feel that ruins all the fun of just finding things eventually), Chase found a large curving staircase down which he performed an excerpt from the Barksdale Theatre's Christmas 2007 production of "Mame," and Ali and I got diet sodas.

Then we went in for the show.

A spirited dramatic musical about pills, depression, hallucinations and pole dancing.

Alice Ripley hit five or six of those good belty notes. The ones where she is very clearly running her lungs through a cheese grater. Awesome. 

Tears, violins, awkward encounters with the director.

All in all, a successful theater experience.

Then we drove home and the boys decided to go to Taco Bell. I stayed out of this decision as I had tried to get in on the decision to get on the proper interstate access but was completely ignored and overruled in favor of taking a side road into the slums of Alexandria featuring a near head-on collision in a gaping sunken car wash by a rusty Sunoco from the early part of the seventeenth century. 

At Taco Bell we ordered several of everything on the menu and some items from fast food chains having nothing to do with tacos. Our grand total rang up somewhere in the triple digits at which point Chase chivalrously inquired into the matter of my having not paid him back for the last time he bought dinner. So I bought dinner. We pull away and begin dividing up the food, one piece of which was supposed to be a Clapusha. Or something like that. So we pull back around and inform the man that we are short an item. He immediately replies, "the Chalupa?" (That's what it was. Chalupa.) So this is suspicious as it would seem he deliberately failed to Chalupa us just to see if we'd come back around. So we pull up to the window and receive a bag. We pull away. We open the bag. The bag contains two hard tacos. Chase has had three nervous breakdowns by this point and has nearly asphyxiated himself chugging Mountain Dew out his nose, he is so tickled by the supposed willfull deception of the Taco Bell counter boy, but we convince him to drive back around. We end up with all of our food, with an extra dessert and extra container of cheese sauce that no one had ever asked for. 

We drive home, Chase and Brett acting out the drive thru situation on loop for a good forty miles, followed by fourteen rousing choruses of "America" from West Side Story. 

Good fun. Good to be home. 

Numb.

I'm going to see some acting in Washington D.C. tonight. Acting I believe about pills, belting, and faces in the gravy boat. I hope I like it. I like car rides when there are show tunes that I know. I don't like listening to things I don't know, which is narrow-minded and also doesn't make any sense because then how in the world would I ever have learned anything. 

My cat just got VERY UPSET for no reason a'tall. 

Now I must shower and make myself presentable so I can drive to the Acting Emporium to meet Chali and then backtrack to pick up Brett from his photo session at the O'Willards. Robyn and I have realized this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but no one really cares. I hope we go through a drive-thru tonight. I love going through the drive-thru.

The birthday party last night was fun. Bridget was attired in a fluorescent green top and super zealous. I sat next to Lynn West who is beautiful and Paul and I decided fiddling was HOT.

They made everybody take a rock when they left. Says something Irish on it. I knew almost no one. Which I prefer because then I am not expected to speak.

Jack Cheese likes to sleep on top of my hands when I am typing.

I think I am going to do a spot of Shakespeare acting. I am pleased by this. I have wanted to have a whack at that for a while. I can only assume I will be attired in all black accented here and there with little dried bundles of berries and twigs.

Oh- Southampton is still alive. I just heard him skittering around. I can't feel my left foot.

I'm going to get sick of this pretty soon.

This time I put the title first. 

I'm going to a birthday party tonight. But I can't talk about it. 

I also can't find the book I was reading. Was "Club Dead." Is one of those ones in the Southern Vampire Series that True Blood is based on. Trouble is, I have now read so far ahead in the series that I feel no burning need to watch anymore of the show. Except for Anna Paquin's legs look OUTSTANDING in her shorts and I would like to observe them so I can form mine similarly. 

Brett sleeps a lot.

I am going to play the piano now. Also I only have one brown boot. Unfortunate.

I always forget to put a title.

I don't have the first thing to write about. Except I just looked up and saw on Pushing Daisies the man whom I believe portrayed the slain vampire in the basement on True Blood. Really like that show. 

I made quiche tonight. Ginnie and I are going to make a souffle. Ahahahaha.

I think it would be nice to have red hair. 

Ginnie and Brett are on the phone talking about "hard sauce." No idea. Assume liquor. 

I'm going to see "Twilight" tonight with Alison Thibodeau. I'm rather intimidated. She is stunning after all, and her last name looks French.

Brett is currently going down the stairs in our apartment building making trumpet noises with his mouth. Our neighbor ABHORS him. I'd like to punch her. Actually fight her. I often wonder how I'd do in hand to hand combat. I think the rage would help out a lot in my fight with next-door-neighbor Jessica.

Kristin Chenoweth looks either too tan or too blond. Hard to tell which. Chase would know.

I am very crabby in the kids Christmas show at the Mill this year. So much fun. My character seems to get increasingly crabby as the years drone on. Methinks Paul has in mind for Pepita to be banished from the North Pole due to bad behavior.

I don't approve of those new book things that have come out wherein you poke a picture in the book with a pen and all words on the page are said out loud through a speaker in that particular character's voice. This will leave children no reason to develop any imagination.

Altogether too much talk about mayonnaise on the facebook today. 

I'm very excited about selecting my movie candy. I always allow myself one candy and one galleon of soda. Coke Zero. 

We were saying the other day how we think The Debra's mouth has all sorts of sensors and computers inside it that gauge the windspeed, temperature of the theater, level of mucus in her throat, dew point average, etc., and then produce her voice accordingly. 

I love Christmas. I also need to call Jason Marks, that reminds me.

One of the cats has taken to squalling without ceasing. There is no reason for this that we can determine other than he feels he leads a miserable life. 

I think the Kristin Chenoweth character is about to get Xed in the bakery.

Blood in the flowers.

Well, Tom and I dolled ourselves up as a cowboy and an elf yesterday and went to the great big green house of Colonial Heights. They have a pig there, and this was the main reason I was excited. Come to find out that this pig, whom we last we met was the size of a Nike is now an offensively unapproachable Omnibus who is kept in a pen in the backyard. They gave me a hot dog. I liked that. Also there were train rides available. For the children. Of which there were about four. I wanted to get into the train but the train consisted of six steel trash cans turned sideways, glued to wheels with holes cut in the top side containing what appeared to be children's training toilets. I would not have fit. We were there to promote the Christmas show at the Mill, so we had brochures. We've been over how I feel about handing out brochures. There were two Santas there. One was appropriate looking- had his natural beard, was pretty old, and he was set up all alone in the freezer section surrounded by pre-lit trees strung festively with papier-mache lizards and cans of budweiser. He was a bitter Santa, I observed after watching Tom talk to him for five minutes. He works at Dupont. He doesn't like it there. He does, however, get paid extra when he plays the Santa at the mall because of his natural beard. I later spotted this Santa deftly performing theft of several hummingbird feeders in the corner. He had put on his sunshades, so perhaps he felt no one would notice.

The other Santa was 17 years old, riddled with pimples, Canadian (Tom thinks he was from the Phillipines), and had a lovely fringe of  blank bangs hanging out from below the front of his wig. He was the Santa in charge of taking photographs with peoples pets. Lots of unhappy Rottweilers and pretentious weiner dogs with their nails done. At one point a jolly round little girl rolled up to me with her poodle on a leash. This poodle appeared to have been stained in blood. She continued her forward rolling motion up to the Santa table where she immediately almost lost her life in the battle that began between her nasty little poodle and the large shark with fur that was next in line. I do not know what kind of dogs those are that have no color and hardly any fur. But they are pink about the eyes, so perchance they are albinos of some sort. Anyway. She was pretty shaken up by that. You could tell because huddled into a chair in the corner and kept looking at Tom and I laughing with tears streaming down her face.

Then Tom settled down in one of the lovely sewage hued Adirondack chairs that lined the walk way and began genially emotionally scarring the grandmother sitting across from him. Her husband? was sitting next to her in his maroon elastic waist sweat pants and eyebrows that looked like toenail shavings giving me the lusty eye and explaining to us that his wife was morbidly afraid of snakes. So Tom proceeded to regale us all with tale of the three black snakes who were living on a shelf in the light booth at the Mill behind the mike cables and who were discovered by the light board op one dark day. Mid way through the story this poor grandmother with her off-white stretch capris, her off-white stretch cankles, and her snazzy orange gold studded flats covered her ears with her hands and got up and walked away. 

Then I had myself two yellow cupcakes from the vending machine I happily discovered secreted away in the corner after which I contracted the most violent hiccups of my life. I couldn't control the volume, and they were great gasping heaves of hiccups. I seemed quite drunk. I couldn't stop laughing, Tom couldn't stop rolling his eyes, and the poodle had denied us the thrill of dying a bloody death, so we decided it would be best if we left. We went to the nearby Wendy's because Tom knew if I ate beef it'd clog my hiccups right up. It did. 

Everyone should meet Sandy Dacus' mother. Everyone.

Number 3

Now, I think 30 Rock has an awful lot of guest stars this season. I was thoroughly tickled by the first season, most especially the episode where Jack needs coffee cups and walks with corresponding limbs. 

Thickburgers look gross. Look like the pile of  Triceratops dung in Jurassic Park topped with an outlandish amount of lettuce. Never is there that much lettuce on the real sandwich. 

Tonight three people I know were sitting directly in my line of acting. I don't like to get acted at, so I tried to re-aim my acting elsewhere. One of those people was someone whom I have never really considered looking lasciviously at, but had to. Had no option. 

Chase now has three curtain speech jackets. All brown, one stolen, all the same. He will tell you that they are all unique. One time in the North Face store in New York Chase and Joseph had a mighty tiff and stopped speaking to each other for half an hour because Joseph didn't see the point in Chase purchasing a water bottle fashioned from the actual hide of a gnu. 

This is the same trip I think where another friend of mine went into Banana Republic for several months and came out thrilled to have purchased a pair of yellow capris. I don't understand why that was exciting. 

I always like to go to Dean & Deluca when I go to New York. Well, not anymore. It doesn't taste good. 

My second post.

I was sitting on Brett's lap when I began writing this. He hates that, I think because it hyper-extends his knees. But he has since gone to change his shirt.

We are preparing to go with CTKniffen of the CTKniffen's Stage 1 Acting Emporium and Theatrical Bazaar to Carytown to pass out fliers. This is what I told Brett we are doing. What we are really doing is driving to Carytown, dropping Brett off on the corner at Can-Can and Chase and I are going to lunch. Chase and I are not of the ilk of person who are comfortable standing merrily on corners shouting and flailing at strangers while stuffing paper in their faces. Brett is. He will probably get tips.

There was a giant cinnamon bun on my coffee table this morning. Untouched. 

I went to the Dunky Donut this morning on my way to the Mill. I call it Dunky Donut because of a long horrible tale involving Long Island, engine coolant, Indian men and nosebleeds. This particular Dunky Donut never fails to infuriate me. Invariably you will be greeted alarmingly promptly by the person at the drive thru when you arrive at the menu. It is a high-pitched chipper downright pleasant voice of a young girl. She is positively tickled that you have stopped by. You then say what you want. You are then cursed out by someone obviously ill and Mexican for asking for whatever sort of cream cheese you have asked for. So you clarify as best you can, and drive round. You pay. You are then informed that today Dunky Donuts does not have either the sort of bagel or the sort of cream cheese you requested (in my case "scrawberry").  I find this fascinating. Yet I continue to go. Brett says the best way to get back at them is to stop going but we found a better option when one day while waiting to be offered a bag of Doritos instead of what I had ordered, Durron, Brett and I stole right off the pick-up window a round magenta sticker that says in yellow letters: "Our Scrambled Eggs Are Made With Milk." I like that a lot. Makes me giggle. 

I like Durron a lot too. 

I have no idea if this is available for people to read.

My hamster is still alive. He has gone missing twice. This is both exciting and impressive because tis thrilling to know that there is a living link sausage with a sizable scrotum risking his life under your sofa, and impressive than in order for said sausage (Southampton) to be escaped at all he has to open his cage and free fall seven feet to the hardwood floor. Once there he must evade two cats. Well, one large elegant homosexual cat with extra toes and one dumpy orange critter who thinks he's a puppy and who ate off his own tail. 

But he's back in his cage now. 

I did light my candle that smells like birthday cakes which I have had since college. I decided to light it because Erin Thomas has a lovely brown candle on her living room coffee table the flavor of which I believe is acting and mahogany. 

I am going to order Chinese for dinner.

I wonder if this is going to be viewable by people. I don't know how to make that happen. Not sure I want to. But I do like reading Janine's blog so I suppose someone might want to read mine. Not Tom. Tom will say he would rather scrape the plaque off his prostate with a cube of jello than have anything to do with blogs. 

The fancy gray cat I mentioned earlier seems to be chronically sobbing mucus. Only out of his left eye. Should trundle him down to the vet. 

It's almost time for Jeopardy.