Last week, the remarkable Derrick Coleman – a deaf sports guy who does sports stuff with sports and the Seahawks and the Superbowl? sports – visited Switched at Birth to show his support / rock a cameo. He is the loveliest and is the person in the picture that looks like he does not sit around all day in a writer’s room facing the trader joe’s snack aisle but instead sports with sports things, on the regs. He is humble and kind and sports. Sports!
Barista: Hi, how’re you doing today?
Me: Great, I’m great, thank you so much for asking, it’s really nice of you to ask.
Barista: …You’re welcome? What can I get you.
Me: medium iced coffee, extra ice. Not that you don’t know how much ice goes into iced coffee, I’m just being specific so that I don’t have to insult you by asking you after you hand it to me.
Barista:….Okay. Would you like an apple tart with that?
Me: No thank you. But thank you for asking. I know that you have to offer me that, that’s not something you want to say or do, you do not want to be wearing that hat, and in your normal life, when you are not here, you do not wear hats. But it’s in the handbook to suggestively sell and wear hats and so you must.
Me: See I was a barista for years and I want you to know that I know that you hate me right now, you resent me, you wish I’d drown and burn in a vat of steamed soy, and I just want you to know that that’s fine, and that I acknowledge that you are destined for greatness and and seven thousand times better at bracelets or poems or movies or whatever it is that you do, than this.
Barista:….Okay. Room for milk?
Me:…I see you.
Me: Yes. Please.
Barista starts to get drink.
ME: I SEE YOU.
Barista: Please stop.
ME: I WILL NEVER STOP SEEING YOU.
I love, I mean, I love, like I love air, and boys, and words, and life, to make things for people and have people over the consume the things. To host, to entertain, to plate things. In my fantasy life, I am very good at it. I make cakes like its nothin while birds flit about my house and it’s all effortless and flawless and wonderful.
In my real life, that vodka infused with mint and cucumber was basically accidentally all vodka to the point where I had to put a DANGER sign on it so that my guests might not poison themselves / make unsavory Easter decisions, and above pictured lemon coconut cake took me four different kinds of icings before I crafted something that was even remotely icing like, and I spent most of Saturday when I should’ve been working covered in egg whites, cursing, meanwhile forgetting that I left the back-up chocolate cake in my car and then it melted all over the passenger seat, like now the entire seat is fudge, and this morning I accidentally put my purse on it and got some of it in my hair and then sort of accidentally ate some of it. I hope that this is not just me, and that there is a similar backstory to BASICALLY ALL OF ETSY.
I’m not even kidding. I am being literal. I want to melt it on a spoon and snort it if that’s a thing that people do with crack. Inject it? Put it in cookies. I want to hoard it in my room. I want to secretly do it at parties. I want to sell it. I want to travel to schools and tell kids NOT TO USE IT, AS THEY WILL NOT STOP.
Whenever there’s a new production of Be A Good Little Widow, two things definitely happen, aside from my standard back row hair-chewing and nostalgia / longing for days of just plays. I always meet two incredible new ladies: Caroline Aaron as Hope, and Larisa Oleynik as Melody:
And two: there is a bowl of prop skittles for the tender end, and I EAT THEM ALL.
I was shooting the shiz with some playwrights last night and we all had some pretty spectacular stories of terrible reviews. Like I was briefly trapped on an elevator with Charles Isherwood once en route down to my play, which he later tore a new bum hole. Another writer was avoiding reading her LA times review, until, while on a bus, the paper BLEW ONTO HER LAP OPEN TO IT. And so on, and so forth. Sad and hilarious tales of woe, of confidence or lack thereof, of feeling misunderstood, of profanity, of Facebook fights, of lost opportunities, of Chardonnay, of the will to go / write on.
AND SO: I think I m going to collect and compile these stories. I don’t know what for, but I really think they’d be fascinating. Playwrights feel a lot of envy for each other, and we don’t talk about it, not nearly enough, but instead craft narratives of the other playwright’s smooth, joyous career in our minds. I think it’d be valuable for us all to hear about each other’s dark moments of New York Times and Despair. And so, I’m going to do that. I’LL SLEEP WHEN I’M DEAD Y’ALL AND PROBABLY ALSO TONIGHT