I Missed A Day

Whoops. Mondays are easily misplaced for me. I work from 10a-6p, and yesterday I had rehearsal from 6:30-10 and then I just crashed out. Sorry. I worked a double today and those lines aren't going to memorize themselves so something had to be sacrificed.

But remember: I already failed National Bloggers Whateveritsshits because I started on Nov. 2, so no loss! Hooray!

I have a habit of telling people I'm busy. Then when they ask me what I'm up to the conversation seems to be far too short for someone who is truly busy. Maybe I'm not really that busy, but I thought I'd take a moment to tell you what I'm doing in life lately:

Job One: I'm a little smitten with this one. I work in a locally owned yarn shop with two other lovely ladies. All day Monday, half day Tuesdays, teaching some classes and maintaining the website and monthly e-mails from my home. It's really awesome. Today I talked to a woman about different yarns and gave her a 45 minute tour. Of a 200 sq foot space. It was fantastic. I also taught a woman how to splice, bind off and knit two socks at the same time from the toe-up. Knitterly friends, you may be yawning, but we all know how impressed non-knitters are by the simplest little techniques.

Job Two: Seasonal work at a fancy lady store. This place is wonderful, the ladies (and two gents out of 35 employees) that work there are lovely and sweet. I'm averaging a pretty pathetic amount of hours, but the discount is great and the environment is heavenly. I will say though, that every time I work there I feel like I'm at a very rich, distant, relatives house where I'm supposed to be seen and not heard and for God's sake don't touch anything!

Job Three: Is about to come to a close. The ESMP and myself are resident teachers of the theater elective at a pretty hip charter school. While many of you may be terrified at the prospect that I'm allowed to help shape the young minds of tomorrow because of this and more likely this. But I do teach. Often, actually. It's my bread and butter throughout the summer and it helps me scrape by during the Fall. And it's amazing. I don't particularly love children (that I'm not related to), but I do love what I do and the sheer, unabashed enthusiasm that kids bring into everything.

Non-job One: Breadcrumbs. It's the play I'm working on every night. I'll go into it more at another time.

Non-job Two: Finding another Job, for when Job Three runs out.

Non-job Three: Christmas. Handmade. I'd like to do 100% handmade Christmas, but we'll see if I'm talented enough for that.

Non-job Four: Variety Show directing.

Non-job Five: Is me calming myself down after I've realized I've taken on too much again and am broke again and am behind on Christmas again.

That's it.

To the line memorizer!

Thanks

Today I would simply like to say: Thank you.

To every man, woman and child that has ever served in any facet of National defense for The United States.

Thank you.

A List.

Today I was on call for work and didn't get called in, which is great because I have very many things to do (but not so great, because I'd love a few more hours). I don't know if you know this, but I'm terribly busy and important. So, instead of another long-winded, not well thought-out post, I'm going to share my to-do list, starting with this morning:

-Go to rehearsal. I got cast in a show two days ago that opens in two weeks. Why do I do this to myself? I hate myself, clearly.
-Write Blog post.
-Bring ESMF vitamins so he doesn't get sick.
-Work on Christmas presents. In all their delicious yarny goodness.
-Memorize lines. (The show's a one act, which is good. I'm one of two characters with an equal line load, which means we're looking at roughly 45 pages of content to memorize, which is... stressful).
-Look up weird words and professions in script.
-Contact only other person who has ever directed a Red Light Variety Show.
         I was offered to direct Red Light officially last night. It's a job I've been drooling over for a couple of years now. They're really incredible performers and do a lot of really awesome burlesque. I've never directed a variety show, so I need some guidance. It's also a really great excuse to talk to one of my favorite people in the world.
-Clean house. I have a really hard time memorizing or focusing on a task for an extended period of time if the house isn't in a moderately clean state. Since the time I began writing this I have already flitted off to do the dishes, pick up some socks, make the bed, and sweep.
-Wrap two gifts. I'm seeing a good friend of mine tonight who recently moved to Chicago. When she left she gave me boots. She said she had too many. I have no idea what, "too many boots" means, but I'm certain it will never happen to me. In exchange I made her this:

Those are little Robot buttons. I love little robots.

The other gift is for her lovely man-friend who moved with her, and would frequently give me rides to rehearsal when we were in a play together last year.

Just a comfy, alpaca beanie.

(For any yarnies out there, that's all Mirasol Qina: A DK 80% alpaca 20% bamboo blend, and it is lovely. I have a ton of it because we put it on sale at the yarn shop when it wasn't selling at full price.)

-Eat. Seriously, if I don't write it down, I'll forget entirely and wonder why I'm so grumpy and emotional.
-Print off calenders for November and December and fill out everything I'm doing. I'm going to have to become that kind of person, things are getting difficult to keep track of in my little black book.
-Research film noir and other "noir"-esq things. Suggestions are welcome - this is Red Light's theme.
-Call Verizon. I dread these phone calls, but I've been having service issues with my 3G on the iPad for months. I've avoided doing anything about it because I hate automated systems and even service people who tell me to try something I've already done ("Okay, now turn the device off. Leave it off for about ten seconds. Now turn it back on, does it work?"). But I'm sick of not having service.
-Take baby photo into work. They're having some sort of "fun contest" so they tell me. I don't think I actually own any baby photos of myself (that would be weird, right?) but I'm sure I can find something.
-Go see a show! This is where the sweater and hat will be given away. My friend that moved to Chicago promptly got cast in a show back here and is back until tomorrow. Hooray!

Now that's a pretty rockin' day. There's actually not one of those things that is going to suck to do. Well, except call about my service. Those things usually blow.

And now: I go, I go, look how I go! Swifter than arrow from tartars bow!

How I Made My Father Uncomfortable: Part 1

I know, you may be all like, "Whaa...? A 'Part 1' post? is there a second part? eighteen more parts? Is this the beginning of the middle three parts and then some indeterminate time  in the future you'll release three really high tech shitty first three parts and then sell the rights to some giant corporation so they can make the final three parts?" No no, my dears! I've just decided that this should be a series. There's another post I published some time ago that I'm thinking of also turning into a series, just because it kicked so much ass.

Truth be told, I've made my father uncomfortable enough times to write a really awkward book, which I may someday. I also contemplated calling this post: Questions My Father Wished He Couldn't Answer.

First off: My Dad is awesome. I just need to preface with this. He is a self-defined "recovering Catholic" which gives you an idea of his upbringing: A little up-tight (his upbringing, not him), importance of education, and there's some things you just don't talk about. He raised me with the company of my Mother, who is also awesome, but we'll save that for another post. My mother made it very clear to us childrens growing up that you should never be ashamed or scared to ask a question any question. Everything was on the table. You want to know what a penis is? Oh, she'll tell you what a penis is! Why boys have it and girls don't, what it's used for, all sorts of different things people do regarding the penis, why people are weird about saying the word penis and how silly that is, any medical conditions that she's aware of that can plague the penis, everything ever. My mother is the only person I know that could make a foul-mouthed trucker blush.

Okay, yeah, and probably me too.

In any case, I realized at a very young age that if I wanted to know everything about something: ask my mom, if I had a feeling something was socially sensitive and didn't want to know everything especially (and most often) because the answer I usually wanted was a definition, not a sociology paper, I should ask Dad. Poor Dad.

You should also know that I got about 50% of my U.S. history from the plethora of Doonesbury compilations we had around the house (and most of my humor for The Far Side, and most of my adorability from Calvin and Hobbes). Not only is my dad a pretty big fan, but we're actually related to B.D. Yeah. Related to B.D. Whatever, it's by marriage and some distant second-cousin something, but it's still pretty cool.

I can't find the exact strip to save my life, but I'll put it up as soon as I do. There was a particular series in the seventies in which a young suburban kid had moved to the big city and was all of a sudden surrounded by bustling diversity. On the bus ride to school there was a young and tough black kid who would always make fun of him, be mean to him, knock is books out of his hand, etc. The little boy (around 6-8, probably) was always really polite because he didn't want anyone to think he was racist.

Then one day, the little boy had enough, and the little black boy does something mean and the little white boy loses his shit and says, "You... you... YOU HONKY!" To which the other boy replies, "What did you say?" And that was the end of the strip. And the beginning of my fascination with the word honky.

I was probably about ten or eleven at the time and I brought the book to my dad and said, as I'm sure many parents become accustomed to, seemingly out of nowhere, "Daddy, what's a honky?" In retrospect, it's a good thing I brought the book with me because as soon as he saw it he understood that this was a contextual question, not one that had just sprung into my head, and not something I'd been called at school (hah, like I didn't go to school with nearly all honkies anyway).

The first ever Doonesbury strip. Published in the Yale school paper.

Thus it was explained to me that "honky" is a slang term, merely meaning "white person". "Is it mean?" I asked. "Not particularly." My dad answered. While at that point, I understood the joke, I had a whole new set of questions that I was free to ponder on my own, seeing as I had asked my father. If there's no other connotation to "honky" then why did the word come into existence? Why didn't people continue just to say, "white person" or "Caucasian"? Maybe there was another connotation to the word.

Bottom line: My personal theory is that honky doesn't have a specific connotation because we're boring fucking honkies.

Or maybe it really does, and every other race in the world is laughing their ass of at me right now. I kind of hope it's that.

Also: I really only wanted to write this post so I could use the word honky an obscene amount of times. I think that word is hilarious and I'd like to bring it back.

Today...

I wish I had something wise to impart upon you today. I wish I could drop a piece of wisdom in your brain that would give you new zeal for life and help you re-exam how much you work and how little you play. I wish I could give you a new perspective on an old routine.

But we all know that's what theater's for.

So instead I will tell you this: today, I saw a dog the size of a small kitten. No joke. A dog, like grown-up, the size of a baby cat. It made me squiggle a bit (squeely giggle, the obnoxious kind that usually makes your significant other question whether or not you really are just like all the other ladies).

And I was so tickled that I saw this tiny little creature that I didn't think to take a picture.

That is all.

What What

All right, election day has come and gone. Decisions were made, people laughed while people cried, the usual. How does one follow an election day post? What could be better than voicing your opinion to help aid the direction of everyone's future? How can one possibly top the beauty of a democratic system? Oh, I will tell you how:

Butts.

That's right, and you're welcome. Today I am dedicating my post entirely to The Butt. An elusive, ever-changing, oddly likeable body part of which everyone has in a completely different shape or size. Fine, the shape and size variant is true for every body part, but I feel like it's far more fun to distinguish different butts than  different arms.

I'll start with what I know: My Butt. If I could write a letter to my favorite sitting place it would read something like this:

Dearest Derriere,
Thank you.
Love, Me.

Like many, I waged war on my unsuspecting tucus right around Jr. High, or slightly before. Personally, my hips widened long before I would ever see and semblance of an actual bosom (which is still second-tier, compared to... my sparkling personality). Bodies change quickly at that age and I hadn't even realized I had a butt until someone in middle school made a surly comment. Many silly diets and "work-out regimes" followed, to no avail, because your body will change in it's own way at it's own pace when you're that age.

I was shy and awkward in Jr. High, throughout High school, like many. Also like many, I was extremely self-conscious of my ever-changing body, so when I heard an attractive boy in my Biology class say, "Damn. You got a nice ass for a white girl." I pretended I didn't hear and scurried away in shame. I now hold a greater amount of appreciation for anyone who is bold enough to speak their minds regarding positive physical attributes in other people.

Let's hold here and make a distinction. A truck load of douchey dudes on the cruise whistling and yelling "are your pants made out of mirrors?!" Is not someone speaking their mind about the physical attractiveness of  someone else. That can only be explained as some strange male ritual of a yearning for failure. I would love to meet someone for whom one of those pick up lines has actually worked. Or whistling at someone. Or just honking and saying "YEAH!". I use corny pick up lines on the ESMF pretty regularly, and yeah, it works, but I have something all those douchey dudes don't: The body of a chick.

Back to the booties! As my dear friend has encouraged me: "Butts go through phases." (he is wise beyond his years in the science of bootology).  I have, over the course of my years out of high school and more recently out of college, noticed a disturbing trend in my own backside of a rather uniform shrinkage happened. This saddens me to no end, but the fact is, my body will likely change every day for the rest of my life, however much or little. My own rear has lessened with the loss of some baby fat but is lovingly referred to as "ghetto shallot" (ghetto onion was apparently where this originated, which I has never heard prior to ghetto shallot), by the one who likes it most. He refers to his own boy-booty as "A bag of oranges".

What I like most about bums is the vast array of sorts in which they appear. The short wide butt is one of my favorites to behold. It's a mystery to me. I work with a girl whose butt is actually wider than it is tall by about twice as much. It's amazing. Another woman I work with has this really fantastic pin-up girl silhouette from the front, but she turns to the side and she's flat as Kansas.

I realize I'm treading through some interesting territory by devoting a post to dissecting the beauty of the Ba-Donk, but it all stems from the fact that I find the sheer diversity in the physical form of humans fascinating, and what I simply cannot understand is the heeby-jeebies it seems to give other people when you talk about it. Yeah, you know what's coming: We're about to talk yoga pants.

Oh yoga pants. I do believe they are the single most controversial clothing item in the last 5-10 years. They're being outlawed from high schools, there's websites devoting to pictures of girls wearing yoga pants in public, and tirades on the internet from angry women who are upset that they have to wait and change into their yoga pants at the gym or else their creepy neighbor will look at their butt on their way to the gym.

A confession: I wear yoga pants roughly 4 months out of the year. I wear yoga pants anytime I can get away with it. They are comfortable, look great with everything, I can move in them (important when you're rehearsing for a show) and they make your butt look amazing. I am also not one to get upset if I see someone checking out whatever junk is in my trunk, obviously, because as you can see by everything above, I do it all the time. I understand banning them in school situations because they really don't leave anything to the imagination but have you seen girls shorts lately? I teach summer camps in a desert climate and those girls aren't wearing shorts, they're wearing denim underwear. It's pretty sickening the try to avert your eyes when you're leading a group of nine-year-olds through warm ups. Yoga pants are far superior to the loin cloths that have replaced shorts over the years.

My point is: why do we have to be so defensive when a bodily compliment is given? Are we all really brought up to think that any time someone says, "Hey, you've got a great butt." That they mean to rape and kill us? While I come from a long line of pretty fantastic rumps, I did not get the wagon I'm draggin' today by genes alone. I have many squats, lunges and stairs in my life to help with the maintenance of my behind. So when the rare occurrence happens that someone genuinely mentions the condition of said rear, I thank them politely. Again, this is not some barely post-teen muscle nut drunkenly stumbling, trying to cop a feel and slurring, "nice ass". This is the rarer, more earnest kind, that has been beaten out of so many men who have been told they, "know better" than to mention the glorious state of a women's lady lump (easily the worst term for butt ever. Thanks for nothing, Fergie).

Bottom line (pun intended). If I ask you if these pants make my butt look big. You sure as shit better say yes.

Now Count It!

This morning I had sunshine on my back and smugness in my heart. Mmmm. Voting. 

And apparently a whole lotta crazy in my eyes. You are welcome.