Now Playing -
a cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
Now Eating -
nothing. And I'm hungry.
Now Feeling -
Now Tweeting
- Melanie
At the behest of Andrew (and several others who made similar pleas in their diaries) I've gone all Supah Gold! (You can, too, you know.) There is now a place for comments! See it? Down there? So, go play!
I got impaled on a stuffed goose last night. There's one part in Bat Boy where I dance with my "husband" (the veterinarian who hunts as a hobby, one of the many things that are so sick and wrong about this show) while he's wearing two dead geese around his neck. Romantic, eh? Well, I got impaled one one goose's wiry little foot. No blood lost, sparing me a potentially embarrassing trip to the Emergency Room. Such are the occupational hazards inherent in Bat Boy.
Huz saw the show Saturday night, and afterwards we went downstairs to see a jazz combo. The singer and pianist are both "theatre babies" - their parents are all actors, directors and musicians. One just graduated high school, and the other is maybe in his early twenties. A bassist and a drummer rounded out the combo. The drummer was sporting one of those little "soul patches," and the bassist has a bowl haircut that made him look like a pinchable four-year-old.
They were great. Now, I'm no jazz aficionado. I like a variety of jazz artists, but wouldn't say I'm a connoisseur of any one artist's catalog. I know enough to enjoy what I hear, if that makes any sense. (Unlike my mother, who has had bad experiences with Miles Davis and Mel Torm�.) My husband, who had studied music and plays a variety of styles, is far more knowledgeable than I am. He really liked them, and that's high praise coming from him. Even took the drummer's and bassist's cards.
I'm posting this now, because there's an update running spontaneously on my work computer which will shut things down in a matter of minutes.
I'm back. Damn computers.
Mom wrote me that she told her boss she could get four comps to see my show. Umm, no. I get four comps, one of which went to my husband Saturday. And then there were three.
Is it odd that I get pissed off when she does this? When she takes it upon herself to "give away" my free tickets? Especially to her boss, who ostensibly makes more money than she does, and had no problem paying for her own tickets the last time she came without my mother in attendance? I don't consider my mom's boss to be a user, but not everyone is that pure of intent. And I'm not saying you shouldn't treat people nicely, but if you do it often enough (my mother has paid for this woman's tickets out of her own pocket on more than one occasion), people get used to it, and it becomes that much harder to tell them you can't. My parents can ill afford this. And I don't think my mom's boss understands that she is either depriving the theater or my mother of money when she gets these "free" tickets. And I'm sorry if I'm being "selfish," but I'd prefer to see my comps go to either my family members or close friends rather than to someone who is only a passing acquaintance. Call me funny that way.
On a lighter note, I'm really liking how my skin has been looking lately. Maybe there's something to that "your body goes through changes every seven years" line. Maybe puberty has finally ended for me at the ripe old age of *koff*thirty-five*koff*. Maybe my hormones are officially "in whack." Maybe we're about to win the lottery, because for me to look in the mirror and like what I see is a minor miracle. Almost from the moment my hormones reared their collective ugly head, I've had acne. Not bad cystic acne, but acne nonetheless. And it's been there for 23 years. I can understand what people with body dysmorphic disorder and anorexia go through. You look in the mirror, and you see what you perceive to be your greatest flaw and that is all you see. It's all you can see. And people could say, "Oh, but you look fine!" and it would make no difference. Because I would look in the mirror and whatever pimple was most prominent would jump to the fore.
Why do we, as women, do this? Why can we not take a compliment and run with it to save our bloody lives? Why is it always "Oh, this old thing? I've had it for years!" or "Yeah, but does it make my ass look big?" Why do we judge ourselves in pounds and inches and lines and spots?
Why can't we just be beautiful?
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a very fine cat indeed - Friday, Jan. 17, 2014
happy new year! - Thursday, Jan. 24, 2013
this is where i am - Saturday, Jun. 30, 2012
this is how it is - Friday, Feb. 24, 2012
a very late last year's wrap-up - Wednesday, Jan. 18, 2012
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