The End of the Brush (3 in a Series)

For the occasions where I slather make-up on my face, the process goes a little something like this (NOT A TUTORIAL):

• If I have not just washed my face (and stepped out of the shower), I will cleanse with a toner of some kind.  
• Then moisturizer/primer
• Maybe color correction
• Then I'll apply foundation.
• Okay one small tutorial:  as always, when applying things to my face, I remember the wisdom of a Mary Kay consultant many, many years ago:  we already have to fight against gravity as we age, so don't add to the problem by continually pulling your make-up, sponges, brushes, et cetera downward.  I try to go upwards, against the grain of gravity, and sometimes in new and different directions so I'm not continually pulling my skin in the same ways all the time.  Does it work?  Who knows, but I'm not taking any chances.
• Then translucent powder
• Eyes go in this order:
• Brows (brush and color in)
• Eye shadow
• Eyeliner (liquid, black)
• Eyelash curler (so they stop poking me right in the eyeballs) 
• Mascara (also black)

And this is when I think of Aimee.  Every time.  I remember watching TV together -- no idea what (maybe an episode of Friends?) -- and a commercial came on for some mascara.  Among their many (unrealistic) promises, this brand promised to get "every lash," all the way to the "corner of your eye."  And Aimee yelled at the T.V.  "It's called using the end of the brush, dumbass!"
And we laughed.  Because she was right.

And I smugly apply my mascara, utilizing the end of the brush for my outer corner lashes, thinking of Aimee every single time.

**Blush, lipstick happen next, in case you were wondering; lipstick is always last, often after I'm dressed.

P's (2 in a Series)

Strange as it may seen, I often think of Pam when I have to pee.  More specifically, I think of Pam when I'm debating whether or not I should pee.  Do I have enough time before the call for "Places" to pee?  

Should I pee before starting my commute home?  

Do I really have to go?

...because of Pam's words of wisdom to me years ago:  "Pee when you can, not when you have to."

It's excellent advice that I've taken to heart, especially as I've gotten older and my bladder has gotten weaker.

If you have the chance to go, go.  You don't want to be stuck in a one-hour commute seriously debating if you can use your water bottle for purposes other than intended and wondering if other commuters will notice if you unbutton your pants?

Image courtesy of Fresh Step cat litter

Random Friends at Random Moments (1 of a Series)

A lot of you probably don't realize that I think of you at random times.  I figured I should write them down, for posterity.

I think of Katy Anne whenever I put on socks, especially if said socks are starting to get worn out and/or have holes in them.  Why?  Because when we were in high school, I complained one day of having a hole in the toe of my (white crew) sock*.  Katy said, "Just turn it around."

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

She again told me to turn it around.  I blinked and said, "But then it wouldn't fit right because the heel of the sock would be in the wrong place."

"Oh," she said.  "I don't have that problem; I wear tube socks."

"Cats in tube socks" yielded this image.  Google you never fail me.

*We went to a private, parochial school complete with uniforms; hence, all of our socks were also the same.

New Paper

What is it about a fresh notepad that sends my fingers flying?  It's so thick and perfect beneath my pen that my handwriting instantly becomes fancier.  A whorl here, a curl there, Why yes, I always loop my S's like that -- why do you ask?

I could write in calligraphy, the stylus scratching against the paper, as easily as I currently write in cursive with this pen and its rubber "comfort grip."  My words are both beautiful and have meaning, importance even!

If I press a little harder, these meaningful and rippling words will make their imprint on the pages beneath, so future generations who use this same 5x8 legal pad will know

cat litter
paper towels
dryer sheets
wrapping paper
wine
eye doctor appointment

They Say You Can't Go Home Again

I say why would you want to?

I often have recurring dreams of the house and neighborhood in which I grew up.  In the dreams, I'm usually coming back to the house or subdivision after having been away for quite some time (just like in real life).  But in the dreams, the roads are longer and more desolate.  The house is quite a bit bigger, similar to how my little eight-year-old self might have seen it.  It's almost always night, and sometimes there are large dogs involved.

It doesn't take a Freudian scholar to analyze the messages my subconscious is sending to me.  My brain replays the images of my youth, distorting them to show the fear and sometimes abject terror I felt growing up.  The anxiety and anger is there, too; I often wake up feeling irrationally angry.  In the dream I may have been screaming in anger and throwing punches, things I was never able to do when I lived at #6 Tompkins Drive.  Of course, even in the dreams the punches are unsatisfying; the anger feels impotent.

I feel I should insert a disclaimer here:  there are people who fared far worse than I growing up.  Compared to them, I'm sure my childhood looks like middle-class paradise.

I haven't had these dreams in quite some time -- crap, I'm even getting teary-eyed just writing about them -- but lately I've been haunted by the fact that I did go back one time and snap some photographs of my childhood home.  My father's family has long since left #6.  There were no people to visit, just blank places to stare at.  The fact that I did go back and take photographs is disturbing to my mind because I can't quite remember which memories are real (from my childhood), real (from the return trip), or just recollections of my vivid (and disturbing) dreams.  Perhaps seeing the photographs will help me clear up the confusion.

I had planned, I think, on posting the photos on my old blog (really old, like that site doesn't even exist anymore), but just never got around to it -- which translates into, "It's too heavy to deal with, so I'll put it off."  So I decided to look back at those pictures, post them here with perhaps some small descriptions attached, and maybe lay to rest a few ghosts, though certainly not all.

Imagine my surprise when, just now as writing this (and multitasking, as usual), I brought out the external hard drive, looked through my files from that Thanksgiving road trip, and found one.
Just one photograph of the house in question.  None of the roads leading up to it, the signs of the subdivision, not even the fence or the yard of the house.  Just one lone picture of an innocuous ranch-style house.

I don't know whether to cry or vomit or both.  I was actually looking forward to a small bit of catharsis by seeing and attempting to describe things that hold so much negativity for me.  I was really looking forward to clearing up in my brain what was real and what was false.  But now I can't.  It's just the same Swiss cheese muddle it was before.

I think the fact that I took only one picture is somewhat telling.  I took over seventy pictures on that road trip -- of me, of my dog, of the apartment building I grew up in, even a couple of my old high school.  But the house in which I spent seven years of hell?  Just one plain photograph.

Still I suppose I can tell you about that one photograph:

The house is now a light beige color (as shown).  When we moved in, it was a delightful light peach color.  Not a pink house, but my little girl heart thought it was close enough.  Within a few weeks, my stepmother demanded that it be repainted.  Something about light-colored houses getting too hot; I don't really know.  So they picked out a new color, and sometimes I'd get to help paint.  The new color?  A dark, I'm-not-getting-enough-water-so-my-stool-is-really-hard brown.  The house looked like a giant glob of mud.

See the window on the far left?  That window was home to one of my greatest achievements as a former food-hoarder.  I used to hoard food for years, sticking snacks and crackers and cookies in various drawers and coat pockets.  My dad and stepmother could never quite figure out why my bedroom had a near-constant infestation of ants.  I used to spend hours watching the ants eat the poison they put out, but that's another story.  One winter I managed to sneak a frozen fudge bar (or fudgesicle, if you will) all the way from the kitchen freezer down the hall to my bedroom on the corner of the house there.  When my stepmother came in to inspect my room (as she did after every time that I had to clean it), she looked in, judging as usual.  My heart pounded in my chest because the fudgesicle was stored in that window between glass and the storm window on the outside (so it would stay cold, of course).  The thick wooden window frame (maybe two inches wide all the way around) kept my fudgesicle hidden from view.  When she left, I enjoyed my tasty frozen victory and said a silent "fuck you."

And that's all she wrote:  that is where this particular post, originally started sometime in 2013, ends.  And I think that's where I'll leave it for now.  For more on houses, monsters, and childhood terrors, see "The Long Road Home."

Episode III: Revenge of the Cysts

"What a horrible, candle-snuffing word [...] 'just.'"

J.M. Barrie (Johnny Depp), Finding Neverland (2004) 

Back when our princess and the pea situation was going on, the nondenominational witch OB/GYN (who I have since fired) said my ovarian cysts were "just a couple of centimeters" big.

And that stuck with me.  Here we are, nearly two years (and two doctors) later, and Leonard is getting a little tired of having medical devices stuck into her orifices.

"But why, Leonard?  Why are you complaining?  They're just a couple of centimeters big."

You know what else is "just a couple of centimeters"?  A penny.  A dime.  A nickel.

Let's try an experiment:  why don't you stick a nickel up your nostril¹.  Oh, you want it removed now?  Why?  It's just a couple of centimeters.  How about swallowing the nickel and letting it ruminate in your stomach for a bit.  No?  How about your ear, your eye, or your colon?  No, that doesn't sound like fun?  "Just a couple of centimeters" doesn't really matter when the object should not be in your body, when your body is not designed to fit said object, when said object is pressing against other parts of your body and causing problems.

Leonard fired that last craptastic doctor.  That last craptastic doctor ignored the pain and the symptoms and tried stuff that didn't work.  Plus, she made me feel bad about myself.  The new doctor (we'll have to give her a name soon) has given Leonard ALL THE INFO.  Leonard could give you the measurements of her uterus should the situation require it!

So, to recollect, in the past five months, Leonard has had:

• 2 blood draws
• 1 X-ray
• 1 endoscopy
• 1 colonoscopy
• 2 ultrasounds

Current diagnoses now include:

• anemia
• Grade A esophagitis
• 1 anal fissure
• 3.2 centimeter cyst on left ovary 
• 7 mm. "hyperdense polypoid lesion"
• 10 mm. thickening of the endometrium

Up next is a thing I still can't type yet, but it involves shooting a saline solution up Leonard's vajayjay.  So, y'know, I've got that goin' for me...

¹ Leonard can fit an entire quarter up her nostril.^2
2 Leonard does not do "the quarter trick" anymore, ever since one got stuck up there.^3
3 While Leonard was at work.^4
4 Leonard was the shift manager at the time.^5
5 Co-workers and underlings called her "Nostril-damus" for some time after.

Chicago Sucked

In May of 2000, I took a last minute road trip to Chicago.  It did not go well.

"Oh yeah, this just keeps gettin' better and better."
--Rick O'Connell (Brendan Frasier), The Mummy, 1999

That's what I was saying by my last night there. Yep, the Windy City sucked donkey butt. In fact, it started out bad before I was even in my car. I didn't have a hotel room until ten minutes before I left home. Granted, I shouldn't complain, because I neither made the reservation nor paid for the room, but I really was stressed and nervous anyway.

"Behave yourselves while I'm gone!"

I drove to Chicago for an audition. There was a full-page ad in a local newspaper about auditions for the Royal Carribean Cruiselines for professional singers, dancers, and male acrobats (yes, male acrobats). This was primarily for their newest ship, The Explorer, which was supposedly the most technically advanced to date. But they were also casting for their other ten or twelve ships, all of which put on full-blown musical and theatre productions.  I had been fired from a job almost a month earlier, so I thought, Hey, I'm unemployed and have nowhere to be! Let's go to Chicago!!"  I packed a bag, kissed the cats goodbye, and was on my way.

I was half an hour into the trip when I realized that I had left the clothes I wanted to wear to my audition hanging in my closet. I hadn't packed them in my bag because I didn't want them to wrinkle. Shit. So I drove another half hour back to my apartment, wasting one full hour of drive time, to grab those clothes, and by the time I left again I hit rush hour traffic leaving town.  I think I should have realized then that the Universe was telling me not to go.
Oh well. I'm stubborn.

So I drove.
And drove and drove and drove and drove. Speeding the whole way, in typical Leonard fashion.
I'd never driven to Chicago before, so I had clutched in one hand the directions I got from MapQuest.com.  (This is 2000, people.  GPS systems are nigh unheard of.) 255 miles of pure interstate.

I took a couple of wrong turns once into Chicago, because I didn't write down whether to go north or south or east or west on a couple of exits, et cetera. However, I did write down the mileage of each length of road, so if I went over that and wasn't at my next turn, I turned around.  Apparently the trip odometer in the car does serve a purpose!

Finally, I made it to my hotel, and in pretty good time, all things considered. I checked in, got my key, went out to my car to haul all my crap (one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, a jacket, and sheet music) upstairs to my room. I got there, and the key wouldn't open the door. I tried several times, and no go. So I picked up one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, and two books of sheet music again, went downstairs to the lobby.

Only, I couldn't find the lobby.

The hotel I was staying in was set up in a circle with a courtyard and terrace in the middle. I wandered around that whole damn thing (carrying one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, and two books of sheet music) until I found the lobby again. (Apparently all I had needed to do was go the other direction, and the lobby was all of fifteen feet from my room.)

I got to the front desk and told the kid at the counter, who looked like he was all of 12, rather indignantly that my key didn't work. He said, "Did you leave it in the door, and then turn the handle?"
"Umm, no."
"Why don't you try that?"
"Okay."
And then he looked at me funny as I had come from the opposite direction of my room, and I kind of mumbled, "I got lost on the way here."

Once more I headed to my room with one duffel bag, one purse, two hangers of clothes, one jacket, dance shoes, and two books of sheet music in tow. The key still didn't work.  I even "left it in the door and then turned the handle" like he had said, but nothing.  After two or three more attempts and much swearing, I dropped my shit in front of the door, and went back to the lobby (the right way, this time).
Again I said, "The key won't work."
"Did you --"
"YES, I put it in the lock and then turned the handle.  Multiple times.  It still didn't work."
So the kid grabs the other keys and follows me back upstairs.

And the door opened smoothly and silently for him on the first try. He must have thought I was moron, the little punk. Oh hell, even I thought I was a moron.

I got inside and discovered that I didn't have a room; I had a suite. I didn't have a bathtub; I had a whirlpool.  I think those two factors were the only saving grace of this entire trip.
So I unpacked my duffel bag, purse, hangers of clothes, jacket, dance shoes, and  sheet music and swam in the tub before going to bed.

I managed to get to sleep in the giant bed, even though I was very nervous for the audition the next morning.  My first professional audition.  What the hell was I doing??  But I slept.  And while I slept, my body decided to tell me exactly what it thought of this spontaneous road trip.

I woke up at 7:30 that morning to the left half of my face completely swollen.  While I was sleeping one upper wisdom tooth (one of two that I still had at the time) decided this would be the perfect time "erupt," to cut through my gums, not to mention the flesh of my cheek.  I could barely creak open my jaw to brush my teeth. How on earth would I be able to open my mouth to sing?!  Well fuck.

But I didn't drive all this way for nothin'.  I got dressed (in the clothes that I had to make a return trip for), tossed my music and dance shoes into my bag, ran downstairs to steal a pancake from the free buffet breakfast, and left.

I drove in rush hour Chicago traffic, another sheet of paper clutched desperately in one hand with directions to the Lou Conte Dance Studio. On the way to the studio, there was a tollway that I was not aware was on my route:  40 cents for a car.

I had no change.  MapQuest had said nothing about tollbooths, phantom or not.

And these aren't small tollbooths with people inside. They're big city tollways, automated where you just throw in your "exact change." Panicking and starting to hyperventilate, I pulled up to the gate thingie, and there was a man at the gate thingie next to me, apparently working there, I guess?  I waved him over and said, "Excuse me? I don't have any change."
He kind of blinked at me. "You don't have any change?"  And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, a person stared at me like a moron.
"No, I'm sorry. I'm....I'm....from out of town," I stuttered.  "I have a dollar. I don't need any change back, but I didn't know..."

He smiled and unlocked the gate and let me pass through anyway, not even taking my wrinkled dollar bill. I breathed a sigh of relief.  I was also grateful I put on make-up that morning for the audition and was looking sufficiently "cute."  Sexist or not, sometimes it pays to be a girl.

I found the studio, and a parking lot nearby. Turns out I couldn't park in that lot -- thanks a lot, Fannie May chocolates! -- so I went back to my car and found a spot on the street.  I still had no change for the meter, so I hoped I wouldn't get a ticket and went inside.

Before our individual auditions, the people in charge talked a lot about the "types" they were looking for and even showed us some clips from other cruise ship productions.  And right then and there, I changed my audition songs.  They weren't looking for pretty sopranos who sang pretty songs.  The clips of the production numbers were from things like Chicago and Cabaret.  They wanted sex and grit.  So instead of singing something from The Music Man, I made the executive decision to open with "Dance Ten, Looks Three" from A Chorus Line.

Choosing songs is always a gamble.  If they like what they hear, they ask you to sing again.  So do you open with your best number and then hope?  Or do you hope they ask you to sing again, and then end with your best number so that's the last thing in their heads?  I opted for the first.  My new song wasn't marked, though, and I did not have a writing utensil on me.  So I did the next best thing.  I marked my chosen sixteen measures with what I did have:  brown eyebrow pencil.  Brown eyebrow pencil, by the way, does not erase, so it's still on those pages now, fourteen years later.

My last minute changes worked to my benefit; they asked me to sing a second song.  So I sang my "pretty," non-sexy song.  Overall, I thought it went well.  Oh yeah, except for the fact that they said, "Thank you, Leonard, for coming today."  That's audition-speak for "You're not what we want and we don't care how far you came for us to turn you down."  They did not ask me to stay for the dance audition.  So all that for ten minutes of nothin'.  Oh well.

    But you see if it wasn't for bad luck,
    Trying to tell you son if it wasn't for bad luck, now now
    Oh, oh, I wouldn't have no luck at all
    --Ray Charles, "If It Wasn't for Bad Luck"

I headed back to the hotel, my ego bruised.   I had to stop halfway there at a gas station so I could get change for the tollway.  I didn't think what little luck I had would keep going. I also had to slam on my brakes once, thanks to a car in front of me, and thereby spilling the Pepsi I had purchased at that gas station (in order to get change for the tollway) all over my car. I got back to the hotel, and dug around my bag for my room key. Couldn't find it. I could have sworn I put it in my bag that morning, but it must have been in my room. So I went to the front desk, and the same twelve-year-old guy from the night before was there, and he said, "Checking out?"
And I said, "No, I'm staying another night."
And he said, "No, you're not. The reservation was only for one night."
And I said, "No, the reservation was to be for TWO nights."

He checked his paperwork and said, "No, only one night."
So I swore a bit and I glared at him, and he gave me the extra key (I never did find the first key, by the way), and I went upstairs -- hot, sweaty, hungry, disappointed, and thoroughly pissed off.

I called my friend who had kindly arranged this hotel room. He then called the online company through which he made the reservation. They insisted that it was only made for one night, and that was that.

Now I could have feasibly left then and there. It was only about 12:30 in the afternoon; I could have driven home. But I was tired, upset, hot, sweaty, hungry, and dammit I wanted to swim in that tub again! So I gave in, and told the front desk to charge the second night to my credit card.  Hotel suites with whirlpools for tubs are NOT cheap, my friends.  Just FYI.

I soaked in the tub to ease my muscles and my half-swollen face and my fragile ego.  I napped.  I got up in time for the hotel's free "happy hour" thingie. I dressed up, put on some make-up (again), and decided I was going to have a good time tonight.  I would pretend it was a vacation or something. There was an Italian restaurant across the street that looked good, plus they advertised a piano bar. So I thought I'd go there for dinner, have some drinks, and soothe my ego by singing a few songs with the pianist.  Fourteen years ago, I had no qualms about randomly singing in public.

I grabbed my purse, headed for the door, went to grab my car keys -- and they weren't there. No car keys.  I dug around in my purse to make sure they weren't lying on the bottom beneath everything else.  I looked in my duffel bag, around bras and underwear and various shoes. I gave the room a once-over.  No keys.  Finally I went downstairs, looked in my car (locked, as always), and there they were, lying on the front seat. Shit.

That's right about when I said, "Oh yeah, this trip just keeps gettin' better and better."  Now I was going to have to pay to have my car unlocked, in addition to paying for the second  night at the hotel.

The Italian Restaurant was across the street from the hotel, so I decided I would walk.  I would call AAA in the morning because I really didn't want to deal with it right hten.

I had a nice dinner, albeit alone. The waiters, all with thick accents, doted on me and shamelessly tried to flirt while I enjoyed my salad and lasagna and bread and wine. And there was a table across from me with what appeared to be a gentleman, his wife, and son. And this guy (probably 38 or 40, dressed in a nice suit) kept looking at me! Like unabashedly staring at me.
And I thought, Shame on you! Oggling me while out with your wife and child.  Oh well.

I finished my lasagna  and went to the bar. Only to be "accosted" by more older men in nice suits   Remember how I said sometimes it pays to be a girl?  This was not one of those times.  The pianist was very nice, though, and let me do a few numbers.  And now, fourteen years later, while I can picture that bar and restaurant, I cannot, for the life of me, remember what I had the balls to sing.

Unfortunately, sitting a seat away from me was a drunk Welsh man who would not shut up. Between his accent and the fact that he was three sheets to the wind, I couldn't understand a word he said.
There was another businessman a table over, watching the Knicks games, as he apparently had money riding on it. And finally, a bartender from Lithuania named Kestas who was more than happy to bum me a cigarette.

After an hour or so, the drunk Welsh guy finally left. The three other people in the bar and I were all incredibly grateful. Apparently he's been there before, and I'm not the only person he was annoying.
Plus, this now gave the second businessman a chance to talk to me and say things like, "You're kidding! You've never been to New York?? Surely as pretty as you are you have a nice boyfriend who takes you places."
"No, I'm single."
"Single?? A pretty girl like you? How come?"
"I'm pretty, but slightly psychotic."
That shut him up for a bit.

But only for a bit:  "Wish you lived in Chicago. I come here every week for business. I could take you to New York and show you around.  San Francisco? Yeah, I bought a condo there, but only stay there two weekends out of the month. Do you need a place to stay in San Francisco?"


I managed to close down the bar (at 11 p.m., party animal). And I went back to the hotel, alone, rather tipsy myself, and passed out in that giant bed.  I woke up with a terrible hangover, called AAA, packed, and checked out at the front desk.  The twelve-year-old desk clerk was, thankfully, not there.

AAA, miraculously, was on time.  They got my car opened, and I was on my way.  I was headed home -- home to my kitties, computer, and closet full of shoes. It's not a terribly long drive, about five hours (or four and a half if you drive like me). You'd think my trials and tribulations would be over, right?
Wrong.

An hour or so into my drive there was this black BMW in the lane to my left. I had some truck going slowly in front of me, and this BMW needed to either speed up so I could get behind him, or slow down so I could pass him. I was starting to get pissed off, so I looked over at this car, and the guy's got his window rolled down and he's shouting at me!  And he's honking and everything!

We're doing 75 mph into the wind, so I couldn't hear a word he said. But he starts motioning for me to follow him and pull over.

I'm trying to figure out what's going on.  Do I have a flat tire?  Is my trunk open?  Did something fall out of my car??

So we turn off at the next exit, and I get out of my car, and he gets out of his shiny black BMW.
He says, "I saw you last night. At the restaurant."

Jesus friggin' Christ! I shit you not, it's the same guy from the Italian restaurant who kept staring at me while out with his family.

Me, stunned:  "Yeah, I was there."
"Wow, what are the odds? It must be fate!"
"Yeah, must be..."   sadistic bitch that she is.
"I saw you having dinner alone, and I wanted to talked to you, but I didn't want to be rude, y'know," he says.
Doesn't seem to be stopping you now.
Then he just blurts out, "You're gorgeous!!"
"Umm, thanks?"

He kept talking, wanting to know where I was going, why I couldn't stay in Chicago another night.
Turns out he was divorced and his son was having trouble in school, so he and the boy's mother went out to discuss things, or so he claims.  I lost interest in his story almost the moment he started speaking.  I have other things on my mind, like how to escape.

"What do you mean you can't stay in Chicago??" he asks.  "Why not?"
"Because I'm going home."  I'm look around at this exit where we've pulled over.  There's not another car or soul in sight, not even a building or a gas station.  My mind is trying to calculate how fast I can get back into my car and end this nightmare.

"Well, when do you have to be back?"
"Oh, in three hours."  Big fat lie.
"So you can't have a beer with me?"
"Nope."
"Gosh, you smell great!"  king of the non-sequitor says.
Thanks, I remembered to shower today, ya pervert.

Then he looks at my car, which is a bit beat up because two weeks earlier my mother backed into it.  While it was parked.
But that's another story.
And there are CD's and snacks and soda cans all scattered about -- y'know, all the roadtripping basics, and he says, "You look like you need some money."

Who fucking says that?

"Goin' around in a broken down car..." he trails off.
"Oh my poor car," I laugh nervously.  "It'll be fixed soon," which was not a lie, for once.

But that money comment, while not entirely incorrect, irked me to no end. What does he think I am?  A prostitute??
 
But before I can contemplate the implied insult any longer, he says this:  "So ya wanna kiss a little bit?"
What?!?  "No thanks."
"Not even a little kiss?"
"No thank you," I say even firmer.
"Why not?"
"Oh, I never kiss on the first drive-by."  Sorry, I get flippant when I'm nervous!  Alright, fine, I'm flippant all the time.

"You're going to let a handsome, young guy like me just get away?"
Young my ass! my inner monologue snickers.  The rest of my brain is trying to figure out how I can quickly ditch this guy and get back into the safety of my sad, broken down car.
The best I can come up with is "Yeah, but if you have an e-mail address, maybe I'll mail you." E-mail's safe, right?  No commitment there.
"Yeah, e-mail me. I go to [your city] all the time for business. I can take you out to dinner."
"Yeah, sure."  Lies, lies, lies, all lies!


He scribbles something on a piece of paper.  I take it and practically jump back into my car.  I'm sure my tires were squealing as I drove like a bat out of hell to get back onto the highway and away from Mr. Creepy Pants.


From then on, the drive was pretty uneventful. But the whole trip was just bizarre and strange and bad and weird. So much so, that I haven't been to Chicago since.

Only now do I realize how much potential that last situation had to go terribly terribly wrong. I could have been molested, raped, maimed, killed, kidnapped, any number of horrible things. I'm so lucky that none of that happened. Only now am I far enough away that I can laugh about the whole thing.  Well, sometimes I laugh.  And sometimes I just drink and think about how young and stupid I was.

After this road trip, I also decided that I don't care if my car's on fucking fire!  I'm not stopping or pulling over for anyone who isn't a cop in a marked car.

Also, I kept his e-mail address.  It was an AOL account.  Even in 2000 that was laughable.  I do believe I used it to sign him up for lots and lots and lots of free porn.

How to Say No to a Date

Leonard is about to lay down some of the best advice you're going to get.  But first, a small story to serve as an example.

Last semester, I was sitting in my office (with the door open) chatting with the one office mate I see regularly.  Said office mate left, so it was just me and my colleague across the hall.  His door was open, too; sometimes we chat across the hallway.

So my colleague says, sort of out of the blue, "Do you like to drink wine or beer?"
Me:  "Oh, I like wine.  I'm not really a beer-drinker."
Him:  "Would you like to drive me to get a drink some time?"

At least, that's what it sounded like he said.  I think he actually said, "would you like to join me for a drink sometime?"

And I was caught off-guard and rather nonplussed.  I was momentarily confused because I had first thought he was asking for a ride (to a bar??  Who does that??), so my brain was catching up.  I was taken aback because I realized I was just asked out on a date.

Don't you see this ring on my finger?  Haven't you heard me talk non-stop about my partner??

Granted, it doesn't look like a traditional engagement right, but still!

More than that, I was shocked because I had somehow thought that in a professional, collegiate environment, I'd be safe from being asked out by random men.  Especially men who do the same job I do.  And especially men, doing the same job, who are quite literally twice my age.

Words tumbled out of my mouth in response as I was on the spot.  "Umm, I dunno, maybe.  It depends.  I often have rehearsal."

I do often have rehearsal in evenings.  I also have a forty-five minute commute to school, so when I'm done teaching, I have no desire to hang out; I want to get started on the long drive home.  I also don't socialize too much with co-workers.  Perhaps if a group was going out for a drink, where we'd discuss work type things, maybe.  But work is work and my friends are my friends, and the two don't usually intersect.

My colleague soon left to teach his own class, and I was still dumbstruck by what had happened.  One of his office mates had come in during the tail end of our conversation, so I asked her if she overheard.  "Did he just ask me out?" I asked her.

And I hated asking her.  Because it sounds arrogant to "assume" someone has asked you out on a date, right?  Besides, what's the big deal, right?  Shouldn't I be flattered?  Besides, maybe it was completely innocent, right??  (I'll answer these questions at the end.)  The office mate said she hadn't heard, and added, "Besides, I think he's married anyway."
You and I both know that doesn't stop a lot of people, but I thanked her and wandered back into my own office, trying to keep my embarrassment and discomfort to myself.

Fast forward to this semester, just a week or so ago.  Our office doors are open, and my office mate and I are laughing about the awkwardness of student crushes (they do happen).  Then she leaves.  And older male colleague across the hall again speaks to me.

"Hey, Lenny, so would you like to have that beer this weekend?  Did I tell you about the microbrewery --"

"I'm sorry, I can't.  My partner is going out of town, and I have to take care of the dog.  We got a new dog who can't be left alone."

While it sounds about as plausible as "I have to wash my hair," my statement was absolutely true.  Our new forty-pound puppy cannot be left to her own devices, and my Unit was indeed going out of town for work.  When we're not home, Dogzilla has to be in her crate (which she HATES), and she can only be in there for a limited amount of time.

I was also irked because 1) he said my name wrong.  It was the equivalent of calling someone named "Caroline" -- someone who has "Caroline" printed on the sign on the office door, on the business cards, and everyone else calls "Caroline" -- the equivalent of calling her "Carol."
2)  I had already said I don't drink beer, which is true.  Wine?  Yes.  Hard liquor?  Yes.  Anything pretty with an umbrella in it?  Hell yes.  Beer?  No.

I was not unprepared this time, though he once again waited until I was alone to approach me.  And my reason was absolutely legitimate.  There was a brief pause, and then he said, "I didn't realize you had a partner."

Me (super bright-cheery-chipper):  "Yep, I do!"
End scene.

So here's the point (yes, there is a point).  I shouldn't have to have an excuse or reason to say "no."  Actually, I shouldn't have to worry about being asked out at my place of work (don't shit where you eat, people!), but that's another rant entirely.

Somewhere, somewhen, we women were taught that we must have some "reasonable excuse" for turning down a potential date.  I don't know when this happened.  I certainly don't remember anyone telling me this when I was younger.  But nonetheless, the thought is there.  And if we don't have an immediate, logical reason, we should "give the guy a chance."  It's the same logic behind trying new foods:  how do you know you don't like it until you try?

Here's how:  fuck you.

No, seriously, there does not need to be a reason or an excuse.  You can simply say "No thank you" to an offer for a date of any kind.  You, be you male or female, do not need a reason to turn someone (be they male or female) down.  Even if, like the above example, it is not explicitly stated that said outing is a date, you can simply say "No, thank you."  You are not required or obligated to hang out with people socially for any reason whatsoever.

And sometimes, we do have a reason.  Sometimes things just don't feel right.  Call it intuition, or your gut; I like to call it the "silent alarm."  It's that nagging feeling, sometimes almost a physical sensation, that for whatever reason this person does not jive with you.  For me, it's usually been because said person is psychotic, but that's another story.  Listen to that alarm.  It's there for a reason, no matter how tiny.  That alone is enough for you to say "no, thank you."

I repeat:  you do not need to give a reason or an excuse.  You do not have to be in a relationship or "have other plans" that night.  You can simply say no.

I am so tired and frustrated of hearing stories from my female friends about feeling bad for turning someone down or worrying about "hurting their feelings."  And I'm really angry over my own past examples, like the one above and many, many more.

1)  We all take a risk when we ask someone out.  Disappointment is one of the potential outcomes.
2)  You are not responsible for how someone else reacts to your answer.  That's on them.

And if you're polite (but firm), you've done nothing to really hurt their feelings.  Yes, they might be disappointed, but like I said, that's a risk we know going in.

While this is mostly directed to women, it applies to anyone and everyone.  We need to stop feeling obligated to other people for no good reason.  We need to stop feeling bad for saying no.

Now, I'll address the questions you might have about my anecdote:

1. He was just being friendly.  Really?  Then why wait until I'm alone and cornered?
2. He just meant it as a social thing.  That's entirely possible, but I'm still not obligated to go be social.  Also, see #1.
3. He meant as a group with other colleagues.  Then he should have said so.  Also, see #2.
4. You should be flattered.  Maybe and maybe not.  While I fail to see what's flattering about someone twice my age crossing work boundaries, maybe it would be flattering to you.  But the discomfort I felt about being cornered and put into an awkward position, plus getting my name wrong, etc. outweighs any potential flattery.

But none of the above really matter; I am allowed to simply say no.  And that does not make me a horrible person, a frigid bitch, or a cunt with a stick up her ass. 

I hope women -- people, really -- read this and take this advice to heart.  I wish I had learned it years ago; it would have saved me some trouble in the long run.  In fact, not listening to that silent alarm and simply saying no, will take us into our next topic:  Dealing with Stalkers.
And that's not hyperbole; I do mean stalkers.

The Bathroom Story

It began as any other morning.  I stumbled from my bed to the bathroom, still not awake yet.  In those days my mother was working ten-hours days downtown at City Hall.  This meant that she left early in the morning, often before I was out of bed (which is impressive since my first period started at 7:45 a.m.).  She would leave, and my friend Teresa -- well, Teresa's mom, really --would give me a lift to school since neither of us could drive yet.

Click to embiggen

I would get up, do my bathroom routine, then go back to my bedroom and get dressed.  I'd open the blinds on my bedroom window because Teresa (and her mother) and I had a system.  They would pull up to the building and honk.  I would wave from my window four floors up, and then take the old-fashioned, non-computerized, original-with-building Otis elevator down to the main floor, run down the sidewalk, and hop in the car.

You see, during my four years of high school, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mother.  The apartment building had been built in the 1920s and had a beautifully renovated ballroom in the basement which was rented out for wedding and dances, including my own high school's prom.  Yes, prom was at my house (but that's a different story).  The building was U-shaped.  If you stood on the sidewalk facing the building, you'd be at the top of the U, looking down its center; a long sidewalk ran down the center of the U.  Four floors up (still at the base of the U) was my bedroom window.

So again, on this chilly winter morning I began my process as per usual.  It involved stumbling out of bed and blearily walking to the bathroom.  Because it was built in the 1920s, the entire building used delicious steam heat in the winter.  The radiator in the bathroom never turned all the way off.  As a result, 1)  it was always a bit stuffy in there, but 2)  I could put my towel over the radiator, and it would be nice and toasty when getting out of the shower.  Oh, and 3)  the bathroom door was permanently warped from the heat.  It would not completely close unless one slammed it.  We never closed it completely, let alone used the ancient turn lock.

So I stumbled up the step (yes, the bathroom had a step) into the bathroom and closed the door.  I have no idea why I closed the door when I was the only one home, minus the cat.   These days I never close the bathroom door, and I'm always surrounded by cats and dogs.

The bathroom routine involved peeing, of course, and then washing my hands and face.  I'd pop my contacts into my blind eyes and brush my teeth.  I would moisturize.  I would exit.  So I did all of those things, except the last one.

I went to open the door, and I couldn't.  The knob wouldn't turn.

Maybe I moisturized too much?  I wiped my hands on a towel and tried again.  Still no go.  The door was stuck.  The knob would not turn.

I tried again.  And again.  And again.  And -- was it getting hotter in there?  Or was it just me slowly panicking?  The radiator dutifully kicked out its steamy heat.  I was sweating, and my hands kept sliding off of the white ceramic door knob.

I must have tried for ten or fifteen minutes before the cold realization set in:  I was stuck in my own bathroom.

I was fifteen, home alone, and stuck in my own bathroom.

I tried not to cry.

How will I get out?  How will I get ready for school?  Who can let me out? 
I couldn't call anyone.  This wasn't Wayne Manor or a James Bond set; there was no phone in the bathroom.  Cell phones hadn't been invented yet.  I was cut off from communication.

Who will find me?  What if the fire department has to come and chop down the bathroom door with one of those giant axes?  My hair is unbrushed.  These were my concerns.

It'll be okay, I thought.  Soon Teresa and her mom will show up, and they'll see that I'm not upstairs in the window, and they'll know something is wrong.

Except my bedroom blinds were still closed.  I hadn't reached that part of my routine.  It happened after getting dressed, which happened after the bathroom routine.  Incidentally, hair-brushing also happened after the bathroom; I kept the brush on my dresser in my bedroom.

Whose bright idea was it to give me baseball pj's?

How will they know I am stuck??  My mind raced until I realized I could crack the bathroom window just a bit (it, too, was warped and only opened a couple of inches) and yell out.  The window glass was thick and frosted, and the window itself obscured by the shape of the building; they wouldn't be able to see me, but hopefully they could hear me.  What other choice did I have?  I resigned myself to my fate, and, in my pink flannel jammies, knelt down on the bathroom floor, put my head on the fuzzy peach toilet seat cover and dozed until I heard the honk of the car horn.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later -- or maybe it was only ten -- I heard the telltale honk of my ride.  I stood up and  put my mouth to the crack in the bathroom window.  "Teresa!  TERESA!"

Eventually a car door opened, and Teresa walked down the long sidewalk, looking around confusedly.  "TERESA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

Trying to find the source of the yelling, she looked around.  "Leonard?"

"TEREEEEEEEEEESAAAA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

"WHAT?"

"I'm STUCK in the BATHroom, and I CAN'T get OUT!"

"You're stuck in the bathroom?"

"YES!  And I CAN'T get OUT!"

I honestly hadn't thought past this moment.  My goal was to tell someone I was stuck.  I had achieved that.  I had no idea what Teresa would do with this information.  Like any good girl, she went straight to her mother, who was waiting impatiently in the car.  Soon, I spied the two of them making their way down the sidewalk, Teresa's tall, lanky figure next to her mother's large, waddling one.

They will save me!  But how will they get in?  They didn't have a key.  No one had a key except me and my mom.
And the building manager.

The building manager was ninety years old if she was a day, and she intensely disliked anyone under the age of sixty.  The fact that she leased an apartment to a woman with a teenaged daughter was nothing short of miraculous.  (I'm sure it helped that I was an exemplary teenager.)

I can't imagine the story Teresa and her mother had to tell Pat to get her out of her apartment, probably wearing a housecoat and slippers.  But within minutes I could hear the front door of our apartment opening, and all three of them trudging in.

Both Teresa's mother and Pat the building manager jockeyed for control of the situation, shouting instructions to me from the other side of the warped wooden door.  I tried opening the door again.  They tried opening it from their side.

"It's locked," the building manager said.

"But I never use the lock," I said.

"Try turning the lock," she said.

"But I didn't lock the door," I insisted.

"Try turning it anyway," she said.

I tried.  The lock was stuck, too, possibly in the "locked" position.  How did that happen?  I didn't use the lock.  I never used the lock.  But the door was nevertheless both stuck and locked.  Stu-locked, if you will.

This comedy of errors continued for a bit with no real progress.  "Turn the lock again!" Pat barked.  I did, and it turned as smoothly as a hot knife going through butter.  No problem.  It unlocked, and I was free.  I stared blankly at the women gathered in front of the bathroom door.  Now what?

Teresa's mom would take Teresa to school, for which she was now late while I got ready for school.  Pat the building manager said she'd drive me to school.  I shuddered at the thought of her elderly self behind the wheel of a car.

No, Teresa's mom insisted, she'd come back to get me.  Teresa's mom didn't like me all that much (in fact, she still doesn't), but heaven forbid someone else do her job.  Or get credit for my rescue.

I was able to get dressed and brushed and packed in the twenty minutes it took Teresa's mom to drive to school and back.  Once at school, I had to head directly to the dean's office for a note to admit me to class because I was horribly, horribly late.  I had already missed first period, second period, and homeroom.

I sheepishly entered his office.  This was not my first encounter with dean, nor would it be my last during my four years there.  He already knew me on sight.

"Why are you late?" he asked, getting out a pink slip to admit me to class.

I dutifully said, "I was stuck in my bathroom."  Two seniors who were working in the office during their study hall, collecting attendance slips and things, started snickering.

One of them said, "Yeah, a pink elephant sat on my car this morning; that's why I was late."

The dean managed to keep a straight face the entire time.  "I'll need a note from your mother," was all he said before sending me on my way. 

I don't know about you, but in my high school, when classes were in session, the halls were absolutely silent.  There was none of this "hanging out in the hallway" bullshit I've seen nowadays.  You were in a classroom or in the library.  If you were in the hallway, you better damn well have had a note saying why.

I clutched my note in my sweaty hand as my footsteps echoed loudly on the beige linoleum floors.  I think all Catholic schools have that same floor and the same beige wall tiles, too.  I had to go down the hall, down a flight of stairs to the second floor, then down another hallway to get to my third period class, Honors Biology.

I opened the door and tried to slip in as unobtrusively as possible.  But the teacher still looked at me, as well as twenty-four other pairs of eyes from their lab tables.  There was no way to not be obvious as I walked in late, even though I tried to be invisible (all five-feet, one-hundred pounds of me).

Mrs. B. regarded me and said, "Welcome, Leonard.  Why are you late?"

And again, I responded, "I was stuck in my bathroom."

While the classroom snickered, she, too, took it all in stride.  "You may take your seat," was all she said.  I slunk into my seat.

And forever after that, long after she had forgotten my actual name, ten, fifteen, twenty years later, she still remembers me as the girl who got stuck in her own bathroom.

Epilogue:
Teresa and I both produced notes the next day from our mothers proving our story was true.  We were so terribly late to school because I was stuck in my bathroom. 

The Princess and the Pea: A Retelling

Once upon a time in a kingdom not very far from here, there was a Princess named Leonar Lenora.  One day, whilst going about her princess-y duties, Princess Lenora cried out in pain.
"Ow," she said.  "Owwwwww!"

Princess Lenora clutched at her princess-y midsection.  "What in the kingdom could be causing such pain here in my princess-y midsection and slightly to the left?" she asked of no one in particular.  When the pain subsided, she consulted the Interwebs her magic mirror.

"Oh magic mirror!" she typed asked, "What is located here in my princess-y midsection and slightly to the royal left which could be causing so much pain?"

The magic mirror replied that all princesses have an organ there -- two, actually, on the royal left and royal right -- about the size and shape of an almond.  "Occasionally," the mirror continued, "the almond can produce small peas which can cause some discomfort."

"But I'm allergic to almonds!" Princess Lenora cried.  "And I don't like peas."

"That's not really the point," said the mirror.  "Please focus."

Days passed, and Princess Lenora was still in royal pain.
"Ow!" she would cry when her almonds acted up.  "Owwwwwwwwwww!  How can one tiny pea cause so much discomfort?  I do not believe it is a pea.  It must be a grape!"

Weeks passed, and Princess Lenora would still clutch her princess-y midsection and cry out.
"Ow," she said.  "Owwwwwwwwww!  Peas and grapes do not cause this much pain.  There must be whole limes in there!"

The magic mirror promptly turned up a recipe for fruit salad.  Princess Lenora was not amused.

Months passed with Princess Lenora still crying out in pain.
"Ow," she said.  "Owwwwwwwww!  Grapefruits!  I must have grapefruits in there to be causing this much royal pain."

The over-the-counter berries she was consuming did not seem to dull the pain in her princess-y midsection (and slightly to the left).  She still had some elixirs from the royal alchemist, but those caused some royal side effects, including the inability to operate heavy princess machinery.

Finally, Princess Lenora consulted a good witch.  Well, "good" and "bad" are relative, but she consulted a witch nonetheless.

The witch looked over Princess Lenora from head to toe, inside and out.  "Hmm," the witch said.  "Come back again in two weeks."  Princess Lenora groaned in pain and royal frustration and took her almonds and grapefruits back home only to return again in two weeks' time.

The two weeks passed by slowly.  Princess Lenora could not even look at a piece of fruit without clutching her princess-y midsection and groaning in pain.

She returned to the neither-good-nor-bad witch two weeks later, still in pain in her princess-y midsection and slightly to the royal left.  She awaited the bad news, white-knuckled and clenched.  "It's grapefruits, isn't it?" she asked.  "You'll have to perform surgery a major spell, right??"

The why-do-we-have-to-put-a-value-on-everything witch patiently said, "No.  It's not grapefruits."

"Oranges, then?  Figures it'd be oranges."

"No, it's not oranges."

"Then what??" Princess Lenora cried out in dramatic princess fashion.

"Peas," said the witch.  "You had peas.  And they're gone now."

Princess Leonora was flabbergasted.  How could the peas be gone when she was still in royal pain??  The non-denominational witch explained how peas can come and go, and how some princesses are more sensitive to pea-and-almond pain than regular, non-royal, peasant-type folk -- especially princesses who don't always feel happy and princess-y, a condition for which they take regular royal elixirs.

The nonsectarian witch packed Princess Lenora off with a new set of royal compounds to take, instructions to write everything down in her diary, and another appointment in three months' time.  Princess Lenora left feeling deflated and still in pain, muttering to herself about princesses and peas.

How Patrick Bristow Ruined My Life

Leonard loves Muppets!  Leonard loves Muppets a great deal.  NO, Leonard does not love Muppets in a way that is unhealthy, you perverts!

I am of a generation that was influenced a great deal by Muppets.  As my friend Karen put it, the most recent Muppet movie "is not for kids; it's for thirty-something geeks who love Muppets."  Amen, sister!  I am one of those (proud) geeks.

I've seen every Muppet movie in the theater since I was able to.  There's a reason Avenue Q is in my top 3 favorite musicals EVER.  I've only seen one Broadway show thus far in my life, and it was Avenue Q.  In fact, we even sat in Row Q.

I collected Muppet and Fraggle toys from McDonald's in the 80s.  When I was growing up, Fraggle Rock was only shown on HBO, which we did not have.  We had four channels, including PBS, so I watched countless episodes of Sesame Street.  Between it and The Brady Brunch, I spent much of my formative years believing that everyone else wore bell-bottom pants and spoke fluent Spanish.

This kid Wesley down the street did have HBO, though.  I didn't really care for Wesley; he was kind of a wimp.  But I made sure to play with him and then insist that we watch T.V. (read:  Fraggle Rock) and drink cherry Kool-Aid in his basement.

I cried in 1990 when I heard that Jim Henson died.  I absolutely hated seeing The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992) in the theater because it was the first feature film without Jim Henson as the voice of Kermit (and it's still one of my least favorites, despite the awesomeness that is Michael Caine).

My two favorite Christmas movies are White Christmas (1954) and A Muppet Family Christmas (1987).  I still have our version of A Muppet Family Christmas taped off the TV (on VHS with a handwritten label), complete with national and local commercials from 1987.  When I was in college the first time around, my mom got me a commercial version of the movie on VHS.  When I watched it the first and only time,  it had been edited; some of the songs were cut.  I was so angry, I threw it away.  Even today, you can only find the original version on YouTube or my 1987 VHS copy.

In A Muppet Family Christmas, Kermit and his nephew, Robin, discover a network of Fraggle tunnels in Ma Bear's basement.  Promptly after watching the show, I went downstairs to our basement to look for Fraggle holes.  I didn't find any.  That was the day the magic died for me, but that's a different story.

Well throughout college (at least undergrad #1), I used to tell people that I wanted to be a Muppet when I grew up.  And I did.  Rather, I wanted to work with the Muppets.  I had heard stories about them remaining in character, that working with Kermit the Frog was working with Kermit the Frog, not Henson or Steve Whitmire.  I wanted to witness that kind of magic first hand.

As I've gotten older, despite being an actor, that dream has become more and more of a fantasy and less than an achievable reality.  A couple of years ago, Dave Goelz (performer of Gonzo the Great and Boober Fraggle, among others) was scheduled to come to the public library for a talk.  I was prepared to show up at least three hours in advance in case there was a line so I could meet one of the greats.  Two days before the event, he had to cancel.

And then.

But then.

A friend who also writes reviews (same friend who told me about Dave Goelz's scheduled talk, actually) told me Stuffed and Unstrung was coming to town.  I immediately researched the show and promptly bought two tickets.  While it appears to now be called "Puppet Up:  Uncensored," Stuffed and Unstrung (as my program clearly calls it), is a Henson Alternative production.  It is a live, improvisational show with Henson puppets (but not familiar Muppet faces) that is intended for ADULTS ONLY.  Dirty, dirty-minded puppets!

While Avenue Q is an adults-only show which lampoons Sesame Street (in fact, all products for Avenue Q, such as the sheet music I own, have to have a disclaimer which states that they are not associated with Jim Henson Productions), it is still a scripted show.  Taken from the Puppet Up! website:

What happens when Henson puppeteers are unleashed? You get a new breed of intelligent nonsense that is “Puppet Up: Uncensored” – a live, outrageous, comedy, variety show for adults only. Enjoy an unpredictable evening when six talented, hilarious, expert puppeteers will improvise songs and sketches based on your suggestions! With a motley group of characters brought to life by the world renowned puppeteers of The Jim Henson Company, this is not your average night at the improv and it is definitely not for children. But all others are welcome to enjoy the uninhibited anarchy of live puppet performance as never seen before! ("About - Puppet Up!")

LIVE.

YOUR suggestions.

I could hardly believe it as I was buying tickets -- this was my chance to interact with the Muppets!  Well, it was as close as I was going to get.  I researched the crap out of the show during my ticket-buying frenzy.  Not only did they take audience suggestions, sometimes they took audience volunteers on stage, too!  Many of the clips on the website and on YouTube featured Brian Henson (Jim's son and the current head honcho for you Philistines) as a performer!  OhmyGod, I might be within arm's reach of Brian Henson!

I made sure to buy tickets on the floor, close to the stage, because when performers are picking volunteers, they're not going to walk all the way to the cheap seats.

That same friend later asked if I wanted to go with him; he had two free tickets since he was reviewing the show, but I already had my tickets in hand.  I was SO FREAKIN' EXCITED!!!!

My dear friend and fellow actor Pamela and I went to see the show.  I could hardly contain myself.  I nearly wet myself with excitement.  As soon as we had our programs, I perused mine.  It did not appear that Brian Henson was performing on this particular tour.  Who cares??  The puppets were all hanging on a wall on the stage, staring out with their dead eyes, waiting to be given life by the talented performers. 

Photo Credit:  Puppet Heap

The night began, and it was perfect.  As the video clip on the website explains, Stuffed and Unstrung is two shows for the price of one.  The first show is watching the puppets live and also on the video screens; it looks the way you think it might look if you've watched any other Henson production.  But the second show -- the SECOND SHOW -- is watching the performers as they also watch their own video monitors.

It may or may not interest you to know that Jim Henson revolutionized puppets on television.  Before him, puppets were still stuck in a box, a makeshift "stage" a la Punch and Judy sometimes with the performers visible; even Howdy Doody was limited by strings.  Muppet productions happen approximately seven feet in the air; the stages are built to accommodate performers with their hands over their heads.  Guest stars have to watch where they're walking, lest they fall into a hole.  And watching that is the second show.

Like any improv show, the performers asked for audience suggestions.  Normally, I'm a pretty loud person.  I saw both Second City and Paula Poundstone perform at this same theatre, and they both took many of my suggestions though I was in the cheap seats because I'm just that loud.  I don't know what it was this night, but my voice was high-pitched and strained, not loud.  Thank God for Pamela!  That woman can project like nobody's business (and with excellent diction, too!).  Several of her suggestions made it to the stage.

As intermission came, they had only asked for volunteers once.  I wasn't picked, but I wasn't too upset.  It was a silly sketch, and there was still the whole second act.  I bought a magnet and a hot dog puppet during intermission, and the night continued.

The second call for volunteers came, and I tried my damnedest to be loud again, but still no go.  Then the third call for a volunteer.  This person would actually get to -- I can hardly type it -- perform a puppet.

This was it.

I screamed, "Me!  Me!"  Pam said, "Stand up!" and shoved me to my feet.  I was practically jumping out of the row.  And then it happened.  Patrick Bristow, the host of the show, came to me.
Oh God.  I almost peed on myself again.

Maybe you've seen  him before, Patrick Bristow.  He has a very distinct look, with his glasses and ginger hair.  His bio says he

is best known for his numerous television appearances most notably as Peter on the groundbreaking ABC series Ellen. Other television credits include, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Seinfeld, Friends, Mad About You, Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and others. Film credits include Twilight Of The Golds, The Longest Yard, as well as the first Austin Powers, So I Married An Ax Murderer, and the accidental comedy Showgirls. ("Cast and Crew - Puppet Up!")

Patrick was a little taken aback by my desperation enthusiasm.  He even said something to the effect of, "Wow!  You're really excited, aren't you?"
Yes, yes I am.
"You're not a puppeteer, are you?" he asked warily.

Here's where things get tricky.  Performers (like me) being asked on stage with other performers (like them) can quickly become a mess.  Why?  Several reasons, such as the volunteer performer might be suspected of being a plant/ringer.  More importantly, the volunteer might try to "out perform" the original performer, usually at the original performer's expense.  Such behavior might be funny to the audience, but it's incredibly rude and comes at a cost.  Don't ever try to take over someone else's show; like I said, highly rude and unprofessional.  You're there as a guest and a participant, but not an actor/performer.

So with all of that in mind, I had promised myself that I would be on my best behavior.  I wouldn't "try" to be funny or snarky.  I just wanted to enjoy myself and be a Muppet for however briefly.
"No, I'm not a puppeteer."

"Wow, you're so excited.  I'm a little scared of people who are this excited.  Did you come with someone?"
"My friend, Pam."  I gestured down to Pam, sitting on my right while I was still standing, breathless.
"Okay, yeah, I'm gonna pick her instead."
I -- what??

I am not making that up.  In the face of my enthusiasm, Patrick Bristow, hateful human being that he is, picked my friend for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity instead of me.  To her credit, Pam tried to protest and insisted that I go instead.  But Patrick would have none of it.  Pam was on her feet and ushered to the stage while I sank back into my seat, stunned.  Even the people around me, who had witnessed my attempts to volunteer from the beginning of the show, were staring gape-mouthed.

Pam doesn't even know this, but as she walked onto the stage, I almost started to cry.  Coming so close to achieving a childhood dream and then losing it to my dear friend, especially in such a deliberate and mean-spirited fashion, was almost too much bear.  My whole body was shaking.  For the tiniest of instants, I sincerely hated Pam.  The realization of how ridiculous it would look to cry at such a show and not wanting my make-up to run were the only things that kept me from sobbing outright.  My eyes slowly sucked the moisture back in as I tried to be an adult even though my little kid heart was breaking.

Pam's puppet performance was, of course, awesome.  She was funny, but not too funny.  She was well-behaved and didn't upstage the original performers; the audience loved her (as they always do; she's very talented).  She told me as she was leaving, one of the puppet performers asked her (quietly, off-mic) if we were improv'ers.
"No," she said, "we're actors."

Overall, Stuffed and Unstrung (or whatever they're calling themselves now) is a fun and enjoyable evening of adult entertainment.  It is also how Patrick Bristow single-handedly let me come within seconds of achieving a dream I've had since I was seven years old, and with a sneer, snatched it away.  I will never forget that night, nor will I ever forgive him.

Fuck you, Patrick Bristow.  You're a horrible human being.

Splish Splash

Recently, a friend posted on Facebook how unrealistic "bath scenes" are in television.  She made some great points, such as:

• That many candles are a fire hazard
• By the time "your man" gets home, you will be wrinkled and pruny, not sexy.
• My favorite:  "You know you're just going to have to take a shower later, a 'business shower,' where upon you do all the things you needed to do in the first place (shave pits, legs, lady parts, and wash hair)" (Underground for Tea).

Like I said, she makes some very valid points.  And it got me thinking (dangerous, I know). I generally take baths to relax because I'm super stressed out, not for sexy time.

Step 1:  Is the bathtub clean?  Eh, I'll rinse it out and risk it.
Step 2:   Fill with (hopefully hot) water.  

 Maybe there are some lame bubbles, but more than likely, Epson salts because I'm fucking sore and incredibly neurotic.

So I get into the tub...crap.  I suppose I could light a candle, but --

Hi.

Hi.  Anyway, maybe a candle, and I was thinking of reading a few pages of that book I --

Whatcha doin'?

I am taking a bath.

Sometimes it's nice to read in the tub, assuming I don't get the pages all wet.  I could even grade papers or --

Is that water?

Yes.

Are you sure??

Can I lick it?

Yes it is, and no, you can't.

What's goin' on, guys?

Crap.

Apparently there's water in there.

I am trying to relax!

Really?  Where??  I like water.

I liiiiiike it.  I do.  What's this?  Can I touch it?  Can I bat at it? Can I knock it into the water?  This is fun!  Let's plunge my hairy hairy arms all the way into the water!  Splash splash splash!

Ohmygod, I love ALL of you!

Pet me.  Pet me.  PET ME NOW.

Bath time is so much fun!  Fun fun fun! Splash splash splash!

Are you sure I can't lick just a little bit of water off of you?

It won't be awkward.  I promise.

MAMA NEEDS SOME ALONE TIME!!!

Wow.

Geesh.

You don't have to be all defensive about it.

I AM NOT BEING DEFENSIVE!!!

...meanwhile outside...

I heard this is where the bath is happening?

Commuter Communication

I have a forty-minute commute to teach.  Forty minutes.  That's one way, against the flow of traffic, assuming there are no major sporting events happening downtown.  Needless to say, I have lots of time to think in the car.

Sure, sometimes I think about my lesson plans and what we're going to do in class that day.  Sometimes I might think of blog posts or other pieces of brilliance.  But most of the time, it's pretty random.  I've even startled myself with some of the randomness of it all.

For example, what started out as thinking of class discussions...

Lysistrata ==> wordplay, sexual puns ==> double entrendre ==> entendre is French for "listen," so a "double entendre" means to listen twice ==> J'entends, tu entends, il/elle/on entend, nous entendons, vous entendez, ils entendent.

Holy crap, I remember how to conjugate entendre!  I haven't had French since high school.

The rest of the time it's not nearly as interesting; more along the lines of

Traffic.
Traffic.
Traffic.
I'm hungry. Do I have snacks in the car? Fuck, are we stopping? What happens if my blood sugar drops on the highway. Does that count as a medical emergency? "Cause of crash: lack of snacks."
Traffic.
Traffic.
Traffic.
I have to pee. I have to pee really badly. Why didn't I pee before I left??
Fuck you, other car!
I REALLY have to pee. Maybe I should wear Depends in the car like that crazy NASA woman who went on the stalker road trip. I don't understand how people can do that. I REALLY have to pee, but I don't think I could just make myself pee in the car, even if I was wearing Depends.
Traffic.
Traffic.
Like that one time we were at the lake and -- FUCK YOU!
I really had to pee then, too, but it was hard to make myself pee in the lake while treading water so I didn't drown. How many times have I almost drowned? Two, I think. Maybe three.  Is it any wonder I don't go swimming?
Traffic.
Are we seriously stopping again? Why can't I just fly home? Like in a tiny --
DOUCHEBAG!
Douchebag. Douchebag. Douchebag.
-- airplane. 

I've also been lucky enough to see some strange and interesting sights on my daily commutes, including but not limited to:

• A bright green Ford Mustang with the license plate G-LNTERN
• An SUV with the license plate TA2D UP
• A sobriety test happening at 2:30 in the afternoon -- well done, madam!
• What I thought were two people having sex on a motorcycle (they weren't).
•  The shadow of an airplane overhead during which time I had a Skyrim flashback, and I seriously thought it was a dragon (it wasn't).

And just think:  I get to do this approximately ninety more times before the end of the semester.  Yay me!

(Image courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger.com)