…than sleeping in til 12-ish on a Sunday…

Which we did…oh, we did, and it was blissful to just rest.

Once we’d stirred ourselves, we ran out to buy food for the furry family members, make a pilgrimage to Office Depot for a binder and pens (which, btw, was disappointing), have lunch and buy new pool toys, and even though Leslie’s is next door to Starbucks, I did NOT get coffee (or anything similar) today. In fact, I declared it was too hot for coffee. (At the time, the thermometer in the dashboard read 109. I don’t think it really WAS, but Forester Gump thought so, and we weren’t inclined to argue).

Came home, stuck the CSz manual into the afore-mentioned binders (after printing section header pages, and a pretty cover, because I’m anal that way), forced a bottle of water down my throat, cuddled the dogs, and went to Workshop, which was incredibly fun, despite me being really really slow about picking up the local variation of Zip-Zap-Zop.

While waiting for Fuzzy, I had a rootbeer float and oh god, there is nothing better than a rootbeer float on a hot summer day. I finished it in the car on the way to Cedar Hill where we FINALLY saw PotC2 (thought the post-credits scene was cute; heard there’s one after Superman as well), which I enjoyed, even though it lacked a real resolution. Could they maybe have flashed “TO BE CONTINUED” on the screen for those of us who couldn’t tell it was screaming “SEQUEL ALERT!” ?

And now, now it’s a bit after one, and Zorro and Cleo are telling me it’s time for bed.

And I quite agree.

…fluttered inside me all day yesterday, but it wasn’t really nerves, as much as queasiness caused by ingesting too much Ora-jel (and similar substances). At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

We left for the theatre early, as we ALWAYS run into serious traffic stoppages where 35 meets 30, and it was weird being there that early and not playing with the inkpad or making sure there was enough chilled water, or vacuuming, or, or, or…. Instead, I hung out with S and D². S joined in the newbie class before ours, and D² and I auditioned in the same group. There was one more woman in our group, but she’s been sucked away by work and life and stuff. I tried to SIP my venti iced nonfat raspberry mocha while chatting with them, but it didn’t work, and I sort of inhaled it. I also tried not to notice that every single table was reserved. No pressure.

J, who was working sound last night, same up to me and handed me her jersey and t-shirt from last night’s game, explaining that she won in it last night, and it would be comfortable without being too revealing – she was right, and that was really sweet of her. She and E, the other woman who played last night, were incredibly supportive and kind, and showed me the two feet of space behind in the bar in the greenroom where you’re not in front of a mirror or visible to the room outside, in which we could change. It should have felt awkward, but somehow it was just amusing. No modesty in theatre, and all that.

Eventually the guys started trickling in, W, who was also in my audition class and had debuted earlier this month, and V, who, like E and J, is a senior player (he’s also seriously tall – J said his jersey number was 67 because he’s 6’7″ – and really good at explaining and guiding. He looks intimidating, but he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met) were my teammates. J2 (another audition mate – this was his third show), and K were on the other team, with E. Our ref was B, who along with KLAE in CA and V and J here is my improv idol, and he seemed to sort of wander in and out of the periphery of whatever the rest of use were doing, being supportive, but staying a bit outside. I’m not sure if that’s a ref thing, or a B thing. I just thought it was interesting.

We did warmups – Woosh!Bong, and Finish the Word (which I’ve played and am usually better at, but they play it differently here), and something that involved singing (note to self: do vocal warmups in car on way to theatre next time), Everybody, Lets!, which is something I need to get more comfortable with, and beep-out. (Note the lack of BUNNY. Note the happiness of me.)

I’d only really decided on my player moniker when J asked me, and I’m not married to it (Melissa “eight to the” Bartell), but J2 has changed his a couple times in his three shows, so I might also. We shall see.

They mocked me for not knowing how Vending worked, but I’m almost always still stamping hands or working bar during that part of the show – I’ve never actually seen it – my vending item was chopsticks (a toy axe and sticks of wood – cuz I’m all about the weaponry).

We opened with Schoolyard Insults (Perspiring Delicious Manacles – actually the suggestion was Perspirating, not Perspiring) which we lost, but it was fun anyway, and the audience enjoyed it.

Next was Blind Line from the red team (need to learn to write faster) and 3-Headed Broadway Star from us, which we didn’t do very well. In retrospect, I think that will improve when we know each other better, because it really is an exercise in groupthink. V being so tall, and me being so NOT tall, he arranged for himself and W to sit on stools on either side of me, took off his jersey, and reversed it so they were each wearing one arm, and the back of it was across me – I thought this was really clever. Red won that round.

The next round was Interrogation from the red team, and forward and reverse from us – V’s amazingly huge pratfall sold it (it looked painful, actually), but it was fun even so. V made the suggestion that I find a way to do a Canadian Cross to keep the scene from being all “talking heads” – and he was right because it added layering, but also was something linear that was easy to back up and redo. We won that round.

Red got to do Five Things, and we teased the audience that they must’ve been really hungry, because almost every suggestion was candy, and most of the candy was something small and squishy, which made it difficult for the guesser, because it’s hard to distinguish a mimed marshmallow from a mimed gummi bear. Really. (V whispered to me that he thought they’d guess three of the five, and was right.)

At half-time I was presented with an actual manual (B said he’s the official maker of copies), which I’m going out to purchase a binder for today. Yay binders. Yay reading material. I was wired when we got home last night so read through it, but didn’t really do much else, and I crashed pretty early (well, for me).

2nd half we did birthdays, and since my friend/coworker A had come to the show, and was a birthday celebrant, she was invited up on stage for our catch-up game, which was Dance Party (Freeze tag with Dancing) which was fun, and crazy, and I think I’m taking all her calls for a month to make up for it.

After that was Do-Rap, which I blanked on, but it had already gone down the whole line at that point, so it was time for someone to be out, and then 185 with some really good suggestions (sardines). Oh, KLAE: I no longer hate 185.

Notes were good. I got more from them after actually playing.

And then we were done, and did the slap-out line, and Fuzzy and I went to dinner with A and her son A2. (I’d have liked to go out with the troupe, but it was better to go with them, and it was nice and relaxing, and a good wind-down. Also, managed to get home before one.)

I’m psyched about workshop today, and I know I’ll be more confident.

With apologies to Poe for stealing his line. Or do you need to apologize for stealing borrowing material from a dead guy?

We’re leaving for the theatre in two minutes. It’s my first night on stage with Comedy Sportz. I’ve been performing in some fashion or another since I was FIVE YEARS OLD. I’ve won awards, even – I mean, local ones, but still….

So why am I more terrified of this than of anything else?

I wonder if it relates to the same reason I’m afraid to really push to get published in something other than lit zines and websites.

Most people have fear of failure.

My stepfather, whose advice is generally dead-on (much as I often hate to admit it), says I have fear of success.

Something to examine at another time, I guess.

Meanwhile, I bought new sweats today, and a t-shirt to wear to dinner that sports a butterfly on the front. My theory is that if I make the butterfly my totem for the evening by wearing it on my chest, the butterflies in my stomach will disperse gracefully.

Well, it was worth a thought.
And the shirt’s damned cute. Kinda flirty. Has shiny bits. And much cleavage.
(I also bought a new sports bra for tonight, cuz bouncing around in underwire is so NOT fun.)

TMI, non?

May you all have a fun and festive Saturday evening.
Further bulletins apres-show.

I remember the smell of my grandmother’s lipstick, back in the days when it was perfumed, and came in pretty metal tubes that had real weight. I remember the way she would stretch her mouth and paint the lines of her lips with such care, bright red, smashing pink, and then blot, leaving smeary kisses on pieces of tissue which would then be carelessly discarded. I remember the way she always smelled like perfume and powder and how my grandfather used to hate it when she kissed him with a freshly painted mouth.

(She had the best powder puffs, too.)

I remember my bubbie telling my mother and me that lipstick was her only makeup since she was widowed. “You can’t go out without it,” she said, and we looked at her with expressions of incredulity, especially my mother, who never wears lipstick at all, any more, because her skin is so dry it bleeds right off, leaving her with spaghetti mouth. Better just to coat her lips with barely-tinted balm, and have healthy skin, if not a colorful smile.

(Her smile, when she looks at me, is what I call her “gushy mom look,” full of love and pride.)

I watch the women I work with reapplying their lipstick after lunch, standing over the bathoom sinks like so many college girls in a communal bath, except we’re not, and they aren’t. I don’t reapply mine, and these days have been only slathering on balm myself, as my lips are bruised and dry from dental trauma and not enough water.

(I will never learn to drink enough water.)

I came home tonight to find that my dog, Miss Cleo, had done her own explorations with lipstick, choosing to eat a tube of Aveda tinted gloss (in “Berry”) that had fallen out of my bag. Her lipstick kisses are all over the bed and the rug, and she was sheepish and apologetic. But for the first night ever, she didn’t reach up to give puppy kisses, so maybe when she does that, she’s not telling me she loves me, but rather trying to taste the stuff on my lips.

(I forgave her, because she’s adorable.)

My mother always teases us with the notion of applying lipstick to Miss Cleo’s overlarge lips, and we always refuse…perhaps Miss Cleo wanted to be one of the girls, too.

(I remember, I remember)

I remember Auntie Annette giving me little tubes of samples from ages long since gone, with matte reds and burnished coppers, but also one tube of truly disturbing silver left over from the 60’s, and when I put them on, for fun, I would feel mature and leave my own trail of tissue paper kisses.

Cut and pasted from the blogathon website.

“… from this point forward, all sponsor emails should be functioning properly. Sponsors should receive a total of Four emails from Blogathon:

1) A verification email that contains a link to http://www.blogathon.org/verify.php
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4) A month after the Blogathon ends, a final email will be sent, thanking sponsors, and reminding them again in case they haven’t had the opportunity to go ahead and send the pledge to the charity.

If you sponsored someone before today and the pledge is not listed in your “Currently Sponsoring” section, please repledge.

If you sponsored someone before today and the pledge is listed in the “Currently Sponsoring” section of your profile but it is unconfirmed and you did not receive an email please create a new thread that includes the amount pledged and the URL of the blog you pledged it to. If you want to remain anonymous you can send us the information via the Contact link on the main blogathon site.”

The link to sponsor ME and First Book is here.

If you are not someone who reads me on LiveJournal, please go here and participate in my reading survey.

Thank you in advance.

I love street fairs, so when it was pointed out that most of the West End of Dallas would be closed to all non-foot traffic this weekend, I wasn’t upset about the lack of discount parking as much as I was excited to experience a Texas tradition. Translation: We spend a few hours exploring the Taste of Dallas festival before making it to the CSz arena last night.

Things I learned:
– Going to a food festival when you are three days past dental work, and forbidden to chew borders on masochism. Most things smelled really good, at least, but all I could actually eat were Cassoulet (mine is better) and ice cream (Ben and Jerry’s. Fuzzy brought me this during the late show last night, and had to ask strangers to confirm that he’d really been served Cherries Garcia because he thought it would be pink. He’s so sweet. And no, I didn’t have to chew the chocolate shards. What Fuzzy didn’t steal melted very nicely.)

– People at food festivals are not always firing on all thrusters. Witness the Japanese restaurant offering sushi in 97-degree weather. Can we all say “food poisoning”?

– You can have four radio stations and three music stages in a four block area and still have a conversation. Really. No, really. Okay there was gesticulation and much screaming, but still.

– Adorable kids handing out fans should never be turned down.

– Never say no to free iced tea.

– Jeans and layered t-shirts are not the best choice of attire for such an event. Five minutes outside, and I was dripping.

Still we had fun. The early show was great, house was packed, and one of my fellow newbies totally rocked in his stage debut. The late show started at a nice blue level and quickly descended into shades of midnight and indigo, but was still funny, although honestly, half the humour was from watching everyone react to the suggestions they were given.

Today, I was invited to a coworker’s birthday party, and I want to go, but I feel like I should stay home and rest, because my mouth still hurts (and worse – ITCHES – and I’m kinda crabby.) Also, I have to finish a story for someone. I shall text her and let her know – she’ll totally understand.

I’ve been doing a lot of mental preparation for the upcoming blogathon, including formulating a survey, and planning a stack of books to talk about. I’ve kept most of my favorites from childhood, but every so often someone will mention a book that I loved, also, and I’ll realize I’d forgotten about it, or at least, stuck the memory in an old, dark, disused corner of my brain.

On the First Book blog, for example, someone recently mentioned Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague, which was a favorite of mine for the longest time. I was more drawn to Phantom than to Misty, of course, and could never decide if I wanted to RIDE her or BE her (I was seven at the time). Years later, when I was in temporary ownership of a small black pony, I realized how very zen horses can be. I miss that. There’s a very deep part of me that is still a ten-year-old girl with braids and jeans with rainbows on the back pockets who is crazy for horses.

Well, for horses and books.

I’m sitting here in bed with my laptop at 1:43 in the afternoon, waiting for vicodin to kick in (it’s just starting to). Why am I drugged? I spent the morning having a tooth extracted, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.

This is the tooth from which a filling was lost last week, and which subsequently broke and tore my cheek to bits. I had recommendations of dentists from three people, and we chose the one closest to home, who managed to see me at 8:30 this morning. I went in expecting a root canal, but we did a full panoramic x-ray, and the dentist, Dr. F, said, “First, this is a secondary molar. You don’t use it to chew all that much. Second, it’s a top molar and there’s almost contact with your sinuses. Third, your mouth is small and you barely have room for the tooth ANYWAY. Fourth, even if we do a root canal, there’s almost nothing there to attach a crown to. I don’t like to recommend this, but your bite is okay, and I don’t think your other teeth will drift, so I think we should extract it.”

I looked at the x-ray with him, and the computer simulation as well, and just the fact that he explained everything made me feel really comfortable. “Can we do it today?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

So I called work, and told them I’d be late, and why. They’d all spent two days listening to me whimper and watching me drink a lot of fluids, and not chew anything, so they really had no problem with it.

Now, I have an overactive gag-reflex, so having instruments and latex-covered fingers down my throat is never a good thing, but Dr. F used tons of novocaine (I am all about the novocaine), and let me breathe, swallow, rest, etc, as he worked.

Molar extractions generally take an hour.
Mine took two and a half.

The tooth was broken in such a way that there was nothing to grip, and then, it wouldn’t loosen, and then they had to give me more novocaine, and then there was drilling to separate the roots, and then much twisting turning, and I nearly bit off the Dr. F’s finger (he apologized for making me gag that much), and finally they managed to get it out, in pieces, but it was difficult because the roots of my teeth aren’t straight, the way they’re supposed to be. In fact, they’re not even merely ‘curved’ – but had an almost 90-degree angle.

I kept apologizing to the dentist for being difficult, and he kept telling me I wasn’t, that I was being just fine, and he was sorry for any discomfort, and finally, when I was nearly in tears, we were done.

I met Fuzzy in the parking lot, and mimed that a) I needed drugs and b) I’d been told not to go back to work til tomorrow, and c) that I was in much pain. He offered to take me home and go fetch the prescription, because he’s sweet that way, but they had to have positive ID for the vicodin, so I said no. I had to wait twenty minutes to get it, but it wasn’t that bad because the novocaine hadn’t worn off.

And then it did, and I was still waiting for the vicodin to kick in.
Which it now has, so I’m going to sleep.

Oh, and, I’m still going to need a root canal…in a different tooth.

Inspired by Ms. Ophelia of Dreaming in Denmark I am sharing something I’ve seen one of the senior members of ComedySportz do on more than one occasion, that I thought was cool. The first time there was a young girl in the audience celebrating her birthday, and V., who is quite tall, got down to her eye level during the “Birthday Song” that was being sung for all the birthday folk that night. I thought this was incredibly cool and thoughtful of him.

Later, I saw him interacting with other children, and realized that he’s an old hand at such behavior, but I thought it spoke highly of him, and said so to my husband. “Well, you’re supposed to do that,” he said, “when you’re talking to kids.”

“I know,” I answered. “But most people don’t.”

We had a lively discussion about that, but I maintain that most people do not think to do that – if they did, witnessing someone doing it would not have been noteworthy, after all. But Ms. Ophelia’s post got me thinking that crouching when you’re interacting with a small child does more than give them your eyes, it also gives YOU a new perspective. I don’t have children, of course, so I tried it with my dogs, which, let me tell you, is almost impossible with a chihuahua.

Still, at – or rather, near – doggie eye level, I realized that dogs look for visual clues, too. They don’t necessarily understand a smile vs. a frown, but they know that slitty eyes mean anger, and blinking can mean distress. Zorro, the chi, is always trying to avoid eye contact – he’s a lovable shy little guy – but Cleo, our galumphing girl-dog, is always straining to reach our faces, and somehow, I don’t think puppy kisses are her sole motivation, any more. I think she really needs to see our eyes to know if we’re happy to see her, or bothered and want her to go away. She’s always been very visual though, responding to hand signals even before vocal ones, though her hearing seems fine. (For a while she even slept with her eyes open, which practice I’m glad she grew out of, because it was sort of disturbing.)

Of course, the whole experiment with crouching brought back reminders from workshop about eye contact (or lack thereof) being key, and now I’m hyper-conscious of meeting anyone’s eyes.