Thirteen Things about MissMeliss 13 Games I Love to Play Clue. It’s classic, and you can turn it into a light roleplaying game. Monopoly. Especially when I get to be the banker. What? No, I’m NOT hiding an extra $500 under the board! Scrabble. Because it’s all about those 50-point words, baby. Jeopardy. Trivia is so much fun. Zuma. There’s something Zen about making those colored balls explode. Woosh-Bong. An improv warm-up. Sort of like a virtual video game married to invisible pinball. (Every troupe uses their own variations – we have “Sheild” instead of “Denied,” for example.) Phase 10. Gin Rummy meets Uno. Much more fun than it sounds. Weffriddles. Granted, I got distracted around #58, and never went back, but it was amusing while I played it. What? It’s played in cars, mostly. The object is to avoid using the word “what” (or its equivalent in any known languages) while trying to get fellow players to use the word, during the course of a “normal” conversation. Rigmarole. It’s much like the improv game “Story,” except that the point is to actually tell a story to conclusion, and there’s no eliminations. A really good example of it can be found in the novel Little Women. The Sims, except I don’t really play it, as much as use it to release my inner psychopath, by finding new and extreme ways to kill my sims. My early favorite was to stick them in a swimming pool and remove the ladder, but I’ve branched out since then. And yes, I do name them after people who’ve pissed me off lately. Cranium. Charades, trivia, and purple clay, all wrapped up together. Much fun! Balderdash! The ultimate word game. Can be as complex as players care to make it. We generally throw away the board, and just use the cards.

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If there was a personal theme for the show last night, it was one of being out of focus. I wanted to be there, I wanted to play, but I just couldn’t focus. And then, I was terrified, not merely nervous, and I clammed up during 185, which is something I’ve been working on NOT doing. I just…couldn’t push past the fear.

It started with a soda can. I needed something fizzy to drink when I got to the arena, and bought a Coca-cola. I sipped about a third of it before getting distracted by something else. And then we started warm-up, but, like the wine-glass teetering on the edge of a table, that pulls focus from actors on stage, I was more worried someone would kick my soda can, than I was about the warm-up game. More than once another player chastised me – gently, and rightly so – for not being all there.

There’s this deep pressure in my brain that’s pushing me to break through some invisible barrier and figure out a way to release the sparky vivaciousness that’s always been a part of my personality, and that I keep repressing, but there’s also an equally insistent inner voice that reminds me I like to write about dark spooky things…and the clash between the two is getting harder to mediate. I’m 36 years old and I still don’t know who I am.

Clay and I talked about creative personalities and a sort of non-clinical bipolar effect that we all seem to have, where we’re either going non-stop, or sinking into misery and plodding doldrums. Sometimes, it just makes you want to chew a couple of lithium cells, or move to a foreign country.

Speaking of which, I’ve felt a very strong urge to really learn to speak and read French. I’ve always loved languages, I usually pick them up pretty quickly, and my smattering of French isn’t enough to achieve what I want to achieve these days.

Back to the show. Overall, it was good, but I’m not pulling my weight, and I KNOW better. I mean, intellectually, I get it. I just feel sort of…lost in translation.

I posted this originally exactly two years ago, but it stands as my favorite Valentine poem ever, and so I’m posting it again. The words belong to John Fuller.

Valentine
The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see you eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a fte.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath) in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work, on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount and get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind
them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap, where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of boolean mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin. And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book, your future tense.

Tonight is the Valentine’s Day Battle of the Sexes at ComedySportz, and I find myself being more terrified than excited. I keep thinking that there’s an error, and I really shouldn’t be on the liners, and I feel like a little kid getting to swim in the big pool for the first time.

Acting classes over the years have all pushed the concept of grabbing your fear, harnessing your nervous energy, and USING it – channeling it into your performance. Clay said last night in IM that I should own the “swimming in the big pool” feeling, and play it – let it give me a kick-ass attitude.

So I’m trying to focus on my punk rock (well, not really, just cool red highlights, but it’s edgy for me) hair, and my special Valentine’s Day bandanna, and the promise of nookie when I get home after, and later today I will brew chicory coffee, and nibble on the special Starbucks cupcake I bought last night, and I will sing along to rousing music, and pretend that I’m a braver person than I really am.

I wonder if they’ll object to me wearing water wings on stage though.

My friend Clay of Moron Life shared this video with some of us before it was actually available for public consumption. I think it’s hilarious – watch and see.

If you were going to ask your favorite author five questions, what would you ask?

If you were going to ask five questions of an author whose work you weren’t familar with, what would those questions be?

I’ve moved and redesigned my bookblog. It can now be found at Bibliotica.com.

DO have a look?

Yesterday afternoon, I had a much-anticipated salon appointment, to cut and color my hair. This was crucial, not just because the-color-which-shall-not-be-named was showing itself in force, but because I hadn’t had it done since October-ish. I’d missed my December appointments because of rehearsals for Lessons & Carols, and various other commitments that conflicted with salon hours.

I arrived at the door to Salon Worx, which is an Aveda lifestyle salon, just before three, nonfat venti cinnamon dolce latte in hand, and with a good book in my bag. My stylist, the sweet, funny, and talented Natalie, met me, and we went back to talk about What to Do.

I said I’d been flirting with pink hair, but I wasn’t really brave enough to do my whole head. She said, “Let me go dig out our funky colors – we can do the dark dark red/brown we’ve been talking about and add streaks of bright punky red.” I said, “YEAH!” and she first brought Jennifer the receptionist over so I could see the color, and then went diving into the storage pantry, surfacing with “Radiant Red.” I liked the name.

I once read an interview in which actor James Marsters talked about adding sweet-n-low to hair bleach to ease the burn, when he had to bleach his hair for his role on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Angel. Even though we only had to bleach selected streaks of my hair, I will remember this advice for my next appointment, because bleach does burn. Actually, the red – the funky red – burned a little as well, and my scalp is still coated with it. (I had to wait for this morning to wash my hair.) My pillow, because I’m stupid and forgot to put a towel on it, looks like someone was murdered on it, actually. Rather alarming.

I had asked about getting an eyebrow wax after the hair appointment, and they booked me, but forgot to tell the aesthetician, so when I go back next week, the waxing is free. I’m having a mini-facial as well. My skin’s been so crazy dry lately, I feel like I’m wearing a mask, and nothing I do is helping.

But at least I love this new hair-color. And next time, I might add a few more streaks, as we kept them kind of subtle for me to ease into this.

I love the cut too. Just a bob with a few layers around my face, but it’s FOUR INCHES shorter than it was when I went in. No wonder my friends commented on how long my hair was. I haven’t seen it that long for years.

And on that note, I’m off to wash the salon smell out of my hair.

Wednesday:
– Plane took off on time, arrived in SJC early.
– Met by The Fabulous Klae,
– Sipped cappucino and ate pumpkin ravioli at Restaurant.
– Wandered around the new and improved Eastridge Mall
– Met Klae’s housemate and their massive grey cat.
– Went to the Elephant Bar in Fremont, for frou-frou cocktails and yummy polynesian food, and yummier hangout time with Klae, Jeremy and Linda.
– Returned to hotel. Soaked in jacuzzi tub. Went to bed.

Thursday:
– Woke at seven. Took blissful shower. Soap smelled vaguely of gardenias.
– Read book and nibbled on free breakfast (scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, coffee, juice)
– Took cab to Office.
– Had lovely chat with Russian cab-driver who played his friend’s jazz cd and told me a sweet love story.
– Played three rounds of Ms. Pac-Man at office, then nibbled on smoked almonds and sipped diet coke while in training meeting.
– Also quietly lusted after hot Canadian expert.
– Had lovely Asian chicken salad: Grilled chicken, spring greens, avocado, jicama, shrimp, pear, and a red bean dressing
– More training
– Got back to hotel @ 6:30
– Met other friends (Liz, Brett) for dinner (thanks guys) and viewing of Liz’s amazing jewelry.
– Stayed up til midnight even though wake-up call was for four.
– Finally slept.

Friday:
– Woke at four. Surfed net for twenty minutes, then showered.
– Nibbled on leftover cheesecake from Weds. evening, that had frozen in room fridge.
– Drank scary coffee.
– Left for airport, chauffered by soulful Russian shuttle driver. He complimented my accent. (I only know about ten words of Russian)
– Drank chai and ate breakfast burrito from charming airport deli while waiting for plane.
– Plane before ours takes off from our gate. Returns 15 minutes later. Broken.
– We are sent to skanky basement gate.
– Our plane is also broken.
– Weather ensues.
– Our flight and flight after are cancelled.
– Frantically call, then text, Fuzzy to post a note on CSz message board, telling them I’m delayed and can’t play. Am frustrated as whole reason for early morning flight back in the FIRST place was so that I’d be home in time for show. Grr. Argh.
– Get re-booked on 5pm nonstop from SJC to DFW, after refusing to take a SouthWest flight to LAX and connect there.
– Go retrieve baggage. Re-check in. Desk agent finds me a seat on an earlier nonstop flight. Aisle seat.
– I declare my love for desk agent in loud attention-getting voice.
– Klae rescues me for a bit more hangout time.
– Upon return to airport find that security line goes to escalator.
– Get routed into shorter security line.
– Am subject to luggage search because of my re-bookings.
– Friendly TSA agent pats me down, while complimenting my cargo-pant jeans and asking if my black suede Ecco’s are comfy.
– Old tube of lotion I’d forgotten was in bottom of bag gets confiscated. “You can keep it if you put it in a Ziplock Bag” she says.
– Leave area wondering what magical properties ZipLock bags contain, since apparently sticking stuff into them renders stuff safe.
– More chai
– Chat with fellow traveler to DFW from my original flight. She did not profess her love of the gate agent, and therefore has a middle seat on the 5 PM flight. Still.
– Plane takes off fifteen minutes late.
– Plane arrives five minutes early.
– Plane sits on tarmac for 32 minutes because other plane is hogging our gate.
– It is pointed out that there are 160 gates, many of which are available, and didn’t they call ahead to reserve a spot?
– Plane finally meets jetway.
– Ahhh freedom. And a clean toilet.
– Find bag. Find Fuzzy. Find food.
– Find that own bed and cute doggies and sweet spouse are better than cheesecake.

I did this in list format because it was quicker. Feel free to request expansions of any item. Have a great day.

Made it home.
Had dinner.
Reset DSL router so now is faster and cheaper (priorities, you know).
Fed dogs.
Bed now.