Le maudit Mo D.

year-end clearance sale

2007. Hmmm.

January: Did I do anything in January? It always seems to be an unremarkable month. GGG did Fronterafest and got a Best of the Week nod. Worker Bee at See Hear Speak.

February: GGG did the Dirty South fest in Chapel Hill. Had more than enough drama for my mama. Sock and Snail won a Cagematch.

March: Birthday 31. I recall it was a modest affair. Note to self: do something bigger and better for your birthday this year. Mom began proceedings to purchase her home. Stepdad ditching in the works.

April: Traveled to Baltimore and DC, saw Sarah and Dyna. LAFF fest. Sebadoh original lineup played Emo's.

May: Traveled to Northampton, hung out with Elinor. Ate lobster with the Class of '97 and spied on them in an official capacity. Mom moved into new house.

June: Canceled my bowl-paving surgery.

July: Did writey-camp in Alpine. Started Novel #2.

August: 1st wedding anniversary. OoB.

September: Hired to help on the Behemoth papers. Tulsa trip.

October: More Behemoth. GGG 5th anniversary show. Cassi came to visit.

November: Mom turned 60.

December: Barcelona. Attitude towards hot chocolate irrevocably altered.

ten year retrospective time is here

2008 marks ten glorious years of post-collegiate adulthood. How the fuck those ten years got away from me is beyond me. They were a fairly decent set of years, and boy oh boy have I learned a lot.

WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED, MO?

The summer I was twenty, a dude tried to get Mara and I partake in marijuana and then provide "some play" to him on a Chicago-bound Greyhound bus. Dude (African-American, early twenties) chose us (Jewish/Armenian-American, early twenties) out of all the fine ladies hitting Chi-town and we were supposed to think of this as a great honor. At the time, I was confused and creeped out. Is this guy serious? Does he really think that two classy young ladies such as ourselves are really going to "smoke some bud and then some black pole?" Only recently has it hit me: yes, Mo, his aim was true! He really did want you to do those things! For free, even!

As I recall, that uncomfortable encounter went on for a really long time:

Stoned Guy: You ladies smoke bud?
M&M: No
SG: You wanna smoke some bud right now?
M&M: No
SG: It's good bud. You could smoke some bud and then some black pole. I got a lot of that.
M&M: No
SG: Why not? You ladies are fine. You be giving it up for someone?
M&M: No
SG: Why not? Why you not giving no man no play? (later joked about every time Yoplait yogurt was eaten: hey Mara, why aren't you giving no man Yoplait?)
M&M: I don't know.
SG: You be fine. You ain't lezzies or nothing?
M&M: No
SG: Then why you not giving no man no play? You wanna smoke some bud?

We both offered him a lot of passive "no thank yous," but NOW that I am older, wiser, and more of a bad-ass than I was back in those days, I would have been louder, more forceful. "No, asshole, I am not interested in smoking some bud and hitting your stick, thank you very much! Do you really think that I would fellate a stranger on the Greyhound for marijuana? I'm a classy broad, and if I'm going to suck your dick, you've got to matriculate at a prestigious four-year institution, 'cuz that's how I roll. Thanks, and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors."

So everytime I think that the last ten years were for naught, I'm going to remind myself that I now have the shaming tools I need to put down a stoned man on the Greyhound bus, even though now I am probably too old to receive such an offer. Oh well.

And of course, happy birthday to Doug!

24-Hour Flying People

Bob and I are home and although we received 12 hours of sleep in the World's Most Comfortable Bed, aka our own Austin-located bed, we are also sick, though not with the Spanish Flu of 1918. Our journey across seven time zones took 22 hours and by the time I was seated in the emergency exit row (probably a bad move, but nothing, not even an aviation emergency, was going to keep me from getting on that plane) on an Austin-bound flight late last night, I was thoroughly dizzy and felt like the plane was flying backwards.

I watched "The Darjeeling Limited" on the tiny screen on the London-Chicago leg of the flight yesterday. This film cemented one bit of lore regarding Americans traveling abroad and that is a fascination with the OTC cough syrups of other countries. Bob and I brought home bottles of some crazy Spanish syrup that's full of codeine, and a UK version of NyQuil called Night Nurse that guarantees clear breathing and a good night's sleep. I will add that to my collection of Canadian caffeine headache pills and my newly acquired Spanish maxi-pads. Overseas druggists rock.

Here are some pictures:

I was too tired to remember you should photograph your food BEFORE you start eating at it, but this is what passes in Barcelona as a breakfast taco. All the constitutent elements are in there: bread, egg, potato, a tomato-based sauce, only in a spiceless, European package. That cafe con leche was so good I sloshed it all over the table. Si!

Here we have some jamon iberico (giant pig thigh with hoof still attached) in a jamonero, aka a Ham Vice. This was at a restaurant where we had la comida (the big midday lunch) that specialized in hams. You can mail order one of these babies (including the jamonero) for 330 Euros!

This is Clara, the lady who sold Bob his new collection of Commedia dell'Arte masks. Clara was the only Espanola that we had any sort of conversation with, and it was one scrappy, dictionary-dependent conversation at that, but it was good. Bob wants to do a mask show and name it after Clara, so when Bob tells you about CLARA! the mask show, this is who Clara is. She was very sweet!

Orgasmic vegetarian foods from the Organic stall at La Boqueria, the Largest Open-Air Market In the WORLD!

No comment here. I just like the sign.

horny and hungry

Spanish TV is sort of lame. Mexican TV is better, what with the game shows, the titties, and the telenovelas that don't require knowledge of the Spanish language to follow. Espana TV consists of a lot of European shit badly dubbed in Espanol. Production is cheap and there's always some old man with no teeth serving as the butt of some joke I don't get.

However, as my desire to discover and revel in Barcelona is officially over (we go home tomorrow and everything except tourist shit is closed for the second day of log-poop revelry) I have turned on the TV and have located the most RIDICULOUS TV experience ever:

Half the screen is an infomercial for ham. For a mere 220 Euros, this company will send to your house an Iberian ham, an Iberian chorizo, a wheel of cheese, and one of them ham vices. There is a chubby woman demonstrating the ham vice with a telephone number flashing beneath her.

The other half is ads for phone sex! Stills of buxom babes and cut dudes flash with phone numbers and enticing statements such as "CONQUISTAME!" and "Chico y gay!" And, of course, STRIPPERS envia Jorge!"

Bob says that this is the TV station he would create if he were God, since the first order of business when it comes to happiness is the epic choice between ham and sex.

There is a woman dressed in a nurse uniform advertising, "solo escucha mis gritos!"

Another channel has a woman reading Tarot cards on the air, next to a statue of the Virgin Mary.

Bob and I have succumbed to colds and will be coughing, sneezing, and farting our way back to the States starting tomorrow morning 2am Austin time.

bang bang swiss miss, you're dead!

I had a food orgasm today. Xocolata. Catalan Hot Chocolate. Pure chocolate bliss in a cup. The consistency of hot chocolate pudding. It was served to me with a skin, which I promptly ate. WITH A SKIN! I suppose I could make this at home if I added some high-quality cocoa to some Jello pudding mix, but somehow, xocolata in a Barcelona cafe blew my doors off. Blew my mind. The best. Chocolate. Experience. Of My Life.

Fuck Swiss Miss, the Quik Rabbit, and all their friends. That is the weakest pussy excuse for hot chocolate. I am going to tell the owner of the T-bird about this stuff. He could make a lot of money serving rich, orgasmic xocolata to Austin's cafe society.

I also climbed a mountain today. Parc Guell, Gaudi's whimsical park, is built on the side of a mountain and involved scaling steep stone steps. Lovely view of the city and the Mediterranean. The Mediterranean Sea! Blue!

Bob and I then hit Orgasmic Organic at La Boqueria where I had an amazing pile of vegetarian food. The combo involved stacking crepes, stuffed peppers, roasted eggplant, carrots, green salad, two kinds of rice, feta, olives, and a tahini sauce in a bucket and putting two forks in it so you can share it with you friend. Bob was only planning to eat the pepper, as he is not a friend of veg cuisine, but was so entranced by the power of yum he ate half the bucket with me. 10 euros for that thing, which seemed like a lot for it but SHIT WAS IT GOOD!!!!

Again: my perception of hot chocolate has been radically altered for life. I can't go back now. Not ever.

of masks and men

I will repeat, because it bears repeating: Barcelona is full of HOT MEN. Local dudes are swarthy and smokin' hot and were I not married (and, uh, traveling w/husband and his family), I'd be speaking the international language of you-know-what with one of them just for the souvenir factor. I imagine it would be a rough ride, not unlike a bull, with some serious stamina behind it. Those futbol-toned thighs can really come in handy I bet.

I was noticing today at the Picasso Museum (PP is a homeboy in B-lona) that the majority of Spanish men over a certain age are most definitely NOT smokin' hot. At some point, they go from bedroom-eyed sex gods to short, wrinkled little men who resemble squashed juice boxes. And most of them have no relationship with deodorant and smell like they wash their clothes in ham and onion juice.

Most of the guards at the Picasso Museum fit that description perfectly. In every room a grumpy, sad-faced Spanish man in his fifties sat in the corner, as if to pay homage to Picasso, himself Spain's most famous squashed juice box man. It made me wonder if those young hotties walking the streets will soon wilt into square-ish old men with disappointed faces. Picasso got tons of young poon well into his 90s, so I guess over here it's not a bad thing.

Bob found a mask shop today! Commedia dell'arte masks! Handmade! And we finally had a conversation with a local. She spoke as much English as much as we spoke Spanish, but we got along okay. Bob tried to tell this nice woman, Clara, that we do improv, because he is proud of it. "EEMPRO?" Bob tried. Clara shook her head. I offered, "teatro sin libro," which was the best I could do, but she still didn't get it. Maybe I should have said "Whose Line Is It Anyway," but I don't know if that ever aired in Spain. FYI, most of Spanish tv is really awful old US and UK shows dubbed over.

Bob acquired two masks, both of which he is very excited about. He is going to try to use them in a show. Barring that, they will make excellent decorations for the wall.

spanish dairy products

During my stay at the P-street Co-op, there were two Israeli dudes who were always complaining about American food. "How do you eat thees? Eet ees terrible," they would say, waving around what they deemed an inferior cucumber or tomato. "You call thees bread?" they would lament, finding nothing redeeming about Wonder Bread, tortillas, Roman Meal, or whatever frozen Sysco shit passed for bagels. They were especially appalled by American dairy products. "Taste like water."

I never really gave our food supply much thought until Eitan and Liran and their Israeli food snobbery washed up on our shores. I mean, these dudes were in the Army and they're complaining about Oak Farms 2% milk? But whenever I visit another country, I have to admit: American dairy products SUCK THE ASS.

Spanish leche (not the stuff in the shelf-stable box, but the fresh stuff) is particularly delicious, on par with UK dairy. You can actually taste the cow in it. There is a fatty, grassy flavor that is purged from our milk supply. Or maybe it never existed in the first place. Do our dairy cows receive a diet of grass and hay or are they on the corn-based feed shit? There is also a layer of cream on top of the full-fat stuff. That would so not pass in the US, but one will notice that on the streets of Barcelona, the presence of obese persons is scarce. Not only would they not fit on the sidewalks, but there just aren't any. Everyone is pretty thin and if not thin, then definitely not what I would call "fat." These people drink full-fat dairy, eat eggs, ham, and bread and few vegetables. They also walk a lot more than us and eat lots of olive oil. And are never exposed to HFCS.

I bought some "yoghourt natural azucarada" which is plain yogurt with a little bit of sugar to sweeten it. I think of the thin, boring crap I buy at home with the layer of water on top of it and wonder why it is that our food, for being so plentiful, is so lame. Or why the Europeans seem to have better quality food for no more money than we pay for ours.

I really want to go back to La Boqueria (the largest open-air food market in Europe) to the "Vegetarian Orgasmic" stall. The proprietors have wisely substituted the word "orgasmic" for "organic" and each item is called "orgasmic eggplant" or "orgasmic rice and beans." I am ready to have an O all over that ham-free stuff.

dali-wood and el pooping man

Espana: land of pork. If you don't like pork or aren't interested in the many configurations that pork may be served, then don't visit Spain. Spain is the land of many hams. And that said, while there is a great variety of ham, there isn't a great variety of other foods. Like the lamester American I am, I was thinking fondly of burritos today. When it is not official Spanish mealtime, the only food you can get is...a ham sandwich. :( It might be the best ham sandwich you'll ever eat, but it's still a...ham sandwich.

No me gusta jamon. But I've still been eating it.

All this cured meat has really been affecting my potty habits, which leads me into one of the greatest cultural phenoms of Catalunya, which is the presence of El Caganer during Christmas!!! Christmastime is poop time, a time when the Catalan people give back to the earth what they take from it. They honor the body's natural processes by placing the little squatting poop man, El Caganer (which really does mean "pooping man") in the Nativity scene. This time of year, little statues of poop man (called caganers) are sold at the Christmas bazaar on the Cathedral grounds. In Barcelona, church and poop are not mutually exclusive.

Today Bob and I took the train two hours north to the town of Figueres to visit the Museu Dali. Salvador Dali is one of my Harry's homeboys, having contributed to Harry's surrealism collections. I actually did more work on the papers of Paul Eluard, the French writer who Dali famously cuckolded. Pauvre Paul. Gala dumped him and stayed with Sal until she died and he did many paintings of her in various states of undress.

The Dali Museum is definitely on my list of favorites. The museum guide gives you a map but the map tells you that it is against Dali's wishes for you to follow the map. None of the works are described, because Dali wanted you to make up your own damn mind about art. I heart surrealism. I saw a bird with human legs and feet (wearing striped socks and loafers, too), the Raining Cadillac, a stereogram of Alice Cooper (!), the famous melting clocks, a bed shaped like a fish, Dali's "soft self-portrait with grilled bacon" (a Bob fave) and several sculptures that made provocative use of carpet tacks.

I think I love Spanish waiters. Our waiter last night was semi-proficient in English but was occasionally scornful of us and it showed on his face. I asked him if I could take his picture and he said si. Photo of waiter forthcoming.

estoy "la boca"

Because I am a relentless pre-planner, I spent the last six or so weeks brushing up on my Tijuanglish so that I could order food in Barcelona eateries without looking like an ugly American. I am a guest in this country, so being the asshole who barrels into el bar shouting "YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?" makes me want to Iberia all over the place. Even though I am familiar with the wrong type of Spanish (aforementioned Tijuanglish, from my four years in the C-Juana), I made sure to buy a SPAIN Spanish phrasebook and learn how to ask for a sandwich, a glass of water, etc. Because I just happen to not look like a standard American (thanks, Mom and Dad for not being whitey-white white people!) and I don't want to behave like one either. (BURN!)

I was unaware that mi marido had made the decision that I would be his personal translator, so when I ordered my tortilla verdures y cafe con leche (dios mio, the BEST COFFEE I'VE EVER HAD, with milk that had a layer of real CREAM in it!) and I did not order for him, he got angry at me. This is one of the recurring themes of my life: I am the most competent person in a given group, and when I do not cover the asses of the less competent, I am some kind of asshole. It was a HUGE PRIORITY to me to be able to communicate in Spanish at a rudimentary level; it was not with someone else. Why am I the bad person? My priorities are awesome!

(non-Spanish aside: in my research on gifted education, a lot of American programs REQUIRE THE GIFTIES TO "HELP" THE AVERAGE-TO-STUPID KIDS WITH THEIR WORK! Free labor! Fucking A, I hate people.)

We lingered for a bit in el bar. People smoke in restaurants here and no one seems to be in a hurry. In fact, you couldn't even get cafe con leche to go, because why would you want to go anywhere with your coffee?

barthelona, dia 1

I have landed in Spain. OMG, hate...HATE IBERIA AIRLINES what a goddamn torture vessel. We flew IBERIA (which sounds like a case of Spanish beer shits, because it is) from Heathrow. NO leg room and the rather hot (Spanish men, so far, are noticeably hot) male flight attendant did not offer me a drink. He was probably, like, "I am too hot and too Spanish to serve this American lady a drink."

Seriously, are Spanish men on that list of men a woman should not ever make eye contact with, because eye contact is an invitation for sex? Or is that just Brazil. I made eye contact with another very attractive Spaniard and he attempted to engage me in Castillian. My Mental Tijuana Spanish Parser did not register and I just said "Barcelona" in a dopey TJ accent (I thought he was asking where I was going). He gave me this weird look after that and walked away. Hey dude: tengo un marido. Back el fuck off.

Seriously, why are European men sexier than American men? Several swarthy, comely, and most likely uncircumsized men caught my attention today and reaffirmed my heterosexuality. American men, by contrast, seem clownish. These guys give off this aura of really being able to pleasure a woman in bed.

Have I mentioned I haven't slept in 24 hours?

Bob and I came directly to the familial Barthelona apartment, where the majority of the family is sick and, much like the familial home in Mittenland, the TV is on all the time, only THERE IS NO ENGLISH-LANGUAGE TV! And no Don Francisco!

We ate some tasty bread and hard chorizo. Sleepy tired. I see that it is only 1:21pm Austin time. It feels like 8:21pm to me, so I guess I have overcome jet lag. I will sleep like a Spanish baby bitch tonight in my IKEA bed.

you are bored by my accomplishments

Although I went through the gifted-school puppy mill with F-town's elite, our household wasn't one for trumpeting my myriad accomplishments. While other people's homes had refrigerators festooned with straight-A report cards and C+ art deemed worthy of entry in the Whitney Biennial (if F-town parents knew about the WB), my mum and pop were more modest about my grades, my 6th-grade-reading-level-in-Kindergarten, and my award-winning solo performances in F-town's elementary school poetry festival. Bragging, like boob jobs and Louis Vuitton purses, was in bad taste, and mom and dad would have none of it.

But this was all back in the '80s, before blogging, before my dad died and my mom decided that I was done being raised. I am not a big bragger about myself. Self-promotion makes me uneasy. But what is the point of blogging if I can't say nice things about myself once in a while? Because who else is going to say them?

Accomplishment du jour: I finished my article on Playwright Colin! Yay! I finished a writing project that isn't a novel! Go Mo!

No really, Mo. Go. Go to Europe. Tomorrow. How about Spain? You need an overseas vacation and some bread with tomato goo rubbed on it. Go on. Go!

writing at the caf

1) Beirut! Very loud! I am officially sick of Beirut, having abused the fuck out of adorable little Zach's Euro-hipster works of art.
2) Middle-aged dude speaking openly--loudly--about his sexuality. He's like Stuart from DTWOF.
3) Cash register noise. Cappuccino machine. Toot. Ching.
4) Worry. IF YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH AN AUSSIE CARTOON FROM THE '90s CALLED "ORSON AND OLIVIA" please leave me a message down there. I don't want to change the names of my protags.

I feel rushed. I leave terra americana in two days.

chinese buffet

I ran errands with my husband today. I hate shopping. Part of it is that I have the wrong body for mass-produced clothing. Everything looks like shit on me, so long ago I abandoned the notion that shopping and accumulating goods will ever bring me happiness. It only makes me frustrated and angry. That said, I have avoided credit card debt my whole life and the only thing I've ever really splurged on was private college. To the tune of 100K, but my dad posthumously picked up the tab for that. Thanks, Dad.

Anyway, in the midst of all this stressful retard-dodging in the parking lots of northern Travis County, Bob decided the time was nigh to rag on me. "You think you're too good for Chinese buffet!" he told me, accusing me of classism when really my dislike for Chinese buffet has more to do with MSG giving me squirty poop and bad headaches. I explained that, and then he said that my alleged MSG sensitivity was class-based. I forgot to remind him that I once dated a guy whose family owned a Chinese buffet, and they weren't hurting in the money department, so his "Chinese buffet=Power To the People" argument had no legs. He then accused me of having a classism-based disgust with ALL buffets, which is so not true because the member of our dyad who thinks Luby's fucking rocks it sure as hell isn't Bob. That, and Alborz Persian buffet, with their exotic offerings in humble stainless steel trays, is not a lunch option I am going to turn my big Armo schnoz up at.

I then reminded him that I hate conspicuous consumption more than I hate Chinese buffet and would rather chow down on hour-old lo mein than purchase and carry a Gucci handbag, drive a Mercedes, or move to Westlake.

We ended up lunching at Chuy's, Bob's preferred provider of fat calories. Across the street from the N. Lamar location was a gun show. "You think you're too good to attend the gun show!" he exclaimed.

I thought about that statement. "Yes," I agreed. "I do think I'm too good for the gun show."

He kept needling me with "You think you're too good" statements until I fired back with, "Yes, and I think I'm too good to love you."

That shut him up right quick.

statistical probability

Something to ponder: if Tina hadn't become a multi-bazillion platinum success/icon in her own right, would Ike have been as severely vilified by the public? I can't help but wonder if her fame and his perceived evilness aren't exponential.

Miles Davis beat the shit out of Cicily Tyson. If Cicily were more famous, would everyone know about this? Miles' name isn't synonymous with spousal abuse like Ike. But still.

Whenever you're friends with a couple who splits up, which member do you retain as a friend, if both is not possible? The smarter one? The better looking one? The more successful one? You probably don't think of it in those terms. Maybe the one you were closer to? But does the other automatically become an asshole?

Is it better to lie and play nice or is it better to be truthful, even if that truth is nasty and unbecoming? What price do you pay for telling the truth? What price do you pay for playing nice?

rejection

The Geegsters got rejected from the Seattle fest. I blame Ike Turner.

am i good or what?

A couple days ago in the car, Bob asked off-handedly if Ike Turner was still alive. I responded, "Yes, but it seems he should be dead now. If any celebrity needs to die right now, it's him."

Well, guess what?

t'is the season

I have noticed an increase amount of ire and vitriol in my daily life these days. Holidays, December Drag, all of this equates to a more negative-than-normal Mo.

For starters, I loathe nothing more than Christmas music. Trite, saccharine, and fucking annoying, Christmas music makes me want to stab someone, not brim with holiday cheer. I am incapable of holiday cheer and am happy to be spending the holidays in Europe, where Christmas still retains its birth-of-Christ roots and isn't this red-and-green commercial mess that shits up my days here. A couple of nights ago some ill-advised carolers happened upon our lawn. Bob perked up and came and got me as if I'd be happy about this. I'd rather have an Airdale crap on my lawn than a bunch of off-key douchebags sing "Silent Night" at my locked front door. "Turn the hose on them!" I told Bob. He laughed. I really meant it, though.

Shopping, something I despise any time of the year, has become more trying. Maybe it's because when I see someone working retail for $9/hr, I know that they are not being paid enough to render false cheer for hours on end.

I have also felt some guilt over the gift of gift cards. Why not gift cards? I hate getting shit I don't want and assume you feel the same. Let's cut out the pretense here. Here's a gift card. Get what you want.

I am reminded why I am wise for choosing childfree-ness because this time of year, all the other mommies would be talking some serious smack on me, questioning my parenting ability and saying bad things because I couldn't bring myself to do the whole Santa thing. My child would be lied to consistently and thanklessly throughout it's life; why lie about a jolly red man who delivers presents through a chimney? It's not even a good story! Hell, why not switch to the story of a young man who leaves school early and goes on an adventure through New York City before going home to tell his parents he got kicked out of school? That story takes place during Christmas time and has quite a bit of protection-of-children's-innocence going on. AND IT'S A MUCH BETTER STORY, written by a Jew, no less.

The only bright light this time of year is Jerm's Xmas Porn show, and I don't even think he's doing it this year. That and crazy time off. Again, I am not complaining. I get to go to Spain and have a wonderful life, indeed. But I cannot help but feel cornered by such blatant insincerity and forced merry-making. I mean, don't people know what's going on in the world???

crackbook

Ugh. I just allowed Alex Q. to snowplow me into joining Facebook. I feel so dirty and used. That thing does not afford you an ounce of privacy. I expect it to say:
MO D***** just farted.
MO D***** had a sexual fantasy about ___________.
MO D***** is opposed to having her privacy violated. TOO BAD, BITCH.

What a shitshow that site is.

do I know you?

This scenario has been happening to me with startling frequency lately:

Person I don't recognize: "MO! Hey! So good to see you!"
Me: (mugging like mad) HEY! (I have no idea who you are) How are you?
PIDR: Great! What are you doing!
Me: (fumbling, trying to remember how I know this person) Oh, working! Improv! Novel-writing! And you? (here I am praying that this person says something that reminds me how I know them)
PIDR: Same stuff! (damn)

I really don't know what to do in this situation. I happen to be one of those people who is easily remembered. Conversely, I am that jerk who doesn't remember every person I've ever worked/performed/went to school with. I have started to just ask people to remind me their names, because I don't fucking remember anyone's name unless you and I had some big major friendship or war story moment. If you took classes with Shana three years ago and met me after a GGG show, and you remember me, then ????.

Last night it was with someone I worked with FOUR YEARS ago, who I had neither seen nor thought about in those four years, and I remembered who she was as she walked away. Arrgh.

If you can advise me on how to gracefully handle these sticky social situations, I need the help.

b.a.

I'm starting to have international travel nightmares. I realized that the flight itinerary that I chose for our hop to Espana has two CUTTINGITPRETTYCLOSE changeovers, one in Chicago and one at Heathrow. The last time I was at Heathrow, we disembarked, so no big deals. This time, we have to take a BUS to a different terminal, and the BA website tells me it will take 90 minutes from one terminal to the other. WTF? Ninety minutes? BA has allotted (if all goes as scheduled) 110 minutes between flights. Perhaps I should have chosen a different sequence of flights, since now it appears that I will have no time to purchase and enjoy delicious Ribena before hopping the jet to Barcelona.

So last night I had a dream that we had to fly to Boston and then take a bus to NYC to get on the flight to a remote French village, bla bla. This just sounds like a recipe for flight-missing and luggage-losing. Arrgh.

Maybe there is Ribena in Spain?

another example of porous boundaries

MOM: You'll never guess what [my mom's friend] Marie told me!
MO: What?
MOM: At her church, during the sermon, the pastor said, "Get the children out!" And then after the kids got out, he gave this long schpiel about how the desire for sex was destructive and consuming. And THEN told the entire congregation that there was a farm in Mexico where you can pay to have sex with any animal you want!
MO: And then he said, "The church van will leave soon, I have dibs on the pony?"

petco gerbil is my life's goal

Of fiction authors and animals.

Last night was a total blast from my New York past. Hell, I was even wearing the same pea coat. Sarah B*rd luvs my troupe, that's all I care about.

what sophia gave me

Sometimes I think the Ladycollege hurt me more than it helped me.

Tonight is one of those nights I'm fairly certain that it did.

foliage and burning

Hot Austin Fall Foliage Tip: The trees in the BookPeople parking lot are turning a lovely shade of red. This is pretty much the only worthy foliage we get down here. I was happy to see it. The fact that it was adjacent to a bookstore and that the development co's landscape architect chose a tree that acts a wee bit deciduous during late November/early December down here made me feel good for a little while. Small gifts.

Last night at the Behemoth Archivists End-of-Project Happy Hour (yes, kids, it's over--I'm Funemployed again), I learned that marshmallows and jackets smell the same when they make contact with fire. Poor Apryl. She took off her new jacket and the sleeve flopped into a candle on an adjacent low table. "Do you smell roasted marshmallows?" I opined. Others agreed until I saw flames erupting from behind her. Steve heroically and manfully stomped the fire out but Apryl's jacket was down one sleeve. This was all before drinks were ordered.

Am going to spend ALL DAY reading my writing group's creative mcshizzle and querying the Ladycollege Alumnae Mag re: an article about Playwright Colin, who kicks all sorts of ass. That, and managing my ill tummy and doing the Office Party show tonight.