We got a box of mangos from a fruit stand, 7 for 7 bucks, and I have no idea what to do with them except walk around like a person with a bunch of mangos on their counter at home, which is to say person who feels just a little bit better than everyone else, but is quite confused as to Why.
Is anyone else sometimes completely overcome by an aggressive need to time travel back to when there was no such thing as phones that lived in our pockets and so we left our houses free of every person we know, and headed to meet the one person we’ve agreed to see, and just spent that agreed upon, unchanged time with that one person? But that is no longer so, and so you are then overcome by an overwhelming sadness that that purity of time spent can no longer be? So what then follows is a need to do violent things our phones, throw them into traffic / drop them off bridges / run them over with cars just so they’ll no longer be, and then lastly, the last part, the yearning to have the part of your brain that makes one reach for their phone, check it obsessively, search for something new that never satisfies, surgically removed? YES? ALL OF US FEEL OF THIS THING? GOOD TO KNOW.
The other night I made us halibut, and Morrison Keddie suffered hours of my workshopping the perfect halibut joke. (Spoiler: none of them work. Just don’t even try. Not even ‘halibut what if you didn’t.’) And now, it is a mere 30 DAYS TIL I WED THIS KED. SEE WHAT I DED THERE? QUICK, TIME, HURRY, SO I CAN SEAL THE DEAL BEFORE HE CALLS IT OFF BECAUSE PUNS
- NUMBER OF TIMES YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME BEING EXCITED RE: THIS SHOW
- EXACT QUANTITY AND SIZE OF MY WINE HEAD TODAY POST CELEBRATING
When I run out of words and questions and characters, I will be the person who is in charge of carefully staging plates with half eaten food for tv and film sets and HAPPILY SO. Seriously, I could just watch the props people do this all. Day.
We’ve been receiving lots of awesome Suzy and Stanley homemaker stuff off our registry, but mostly Importanty, we have discovered that ALL CRACKER HAS EVER WANTED IS TO LIVE IN A GIANT PILE OF PACKING PAPER.
Me: I think I can’t wait til we’re old.
Me: I was behind this middle aged couple at the play the other night, and they seemed so happy.
Morrison: Yeah? Why?
Me: They seemed really calm and like their kids were grown and out of the house. Like they just shop for cheeses and have people over for dinner and drink wine and eat lots of cheese and go to plays.
Morrison: So you’re excited to be old because cheese.
Morrison: Yep. That checks out.
Edward Albee died yesterday, and of course though it is he who died, I am a playwright, and so it is a profound event that occurred mostly to me. But seriously though: like a lot of theater people, he is one of the very reasons I started writing plays. I discovered his plays in college, and they were messy and brave and passionate and weird, and they gave me permission to attempt to write the same. Below is my fb post documenting my one real life interaction with him. When someone dies and everyone posts about them, do the posts gain mass and form and create some sort of cloud you can see but can’t touch, and does the person then live on that cloud for eternity? If so, Albee’s is a MASSIVE MANSION CLOUD.
I would post my signed Edward Albee thing, but it went something like this: I was 20 I think, coming out of the Elephant Man, and saw him coming out of the Goat, Or Who is Sylvia, next door. I recognized him immediately, floated towards him, with my Elephant Man playbill in hand, and said, ‘You are my favorite playwright.’ He said thank you, thank you, started to take my playbill to sign — then saw what it was. ‘I didn’t write that. I’m not that playwright. You have no idea who I am.’ And he got into his car, off to the Tonys. I decided in that moment that playwrights are oftentimes invisible people sliding out the backstage door who deserve to be seen and known. RIP, brilliant man. May you be known and known and known.
Sometimes I get stuck behind a garbage truck and I’m like wahhhhhhhh, I am stuck behind a garbage truck, garbage truck how DARE you, but then I remember: THE GARBAGE TRUCK IS REMOVING AND DISPOSING OF MY GARBAGE, MY ACTUAL HUMAN GARBAGE, and then I am suddenly 20% more patient, which lasts for half an Enya song AND THEN I REALLY JUST NEED THE TRUCK TO MOVE REGARDLESS OF ITS CONTENTS.