I wrote a Noah’s Ark Cake into my Cake Play because why would you not, and some genius props person  made this out of clay:

I can’t wait to take it home with me after the run and keep it in my house forever and be a creepy old great grandma in 2067 who, when you come to visit with your new girlfriend, makes you go into her living room and admire the Noah’s Ark Cake that someone made for her fifty years ago and  you’re like who’s Noah and  what’s a play and she throws a book at your head and you’re like what’s book?

At some point, I decided to stick these words at the end of the The Cake script:

END OF PLAY.

NOTE: This is the end of the play part of the play. Ideally, upon exiting the theater, the audience is surprised with an actual CAKE, waiting for them. The wonderfully terrible grocery store cake that you never let yourself eat. Ideally, everyone then stands around together, eating cake.

And I will NEVER. REGRET IT.

I love the Dixie Chicks. I am a cliche. I don’t even CARE. These gals got me through high school. They are the very sound an old blue Beretta makes combined with tradition and optimism and bravery a deep yearning to run far and alone. They have soundtracked my plays and their Landslide cover is the only thing that truly calms me down. Last night, I got to see them live, some 20 years after they first happened. Not only did they slay / cover Beyonce / do classics / push limits, there was ALSO MILD YET EFFECTIVE SOCIAL AND POLITICAL COMMENTARY, to the point where, during this particular song:

My friend Mary leaned over, and sort of stunned-said, Look at this. We live in America. God Bless these gals from their boots to their banjos. SLAY FOREVER, CHICKS.

I’M TALKIN  TO YOU MRS.

Definitely didn’t make Morrison take this picture of me by my credit at all, because I’m a producer now and basically just far too busy and important and self-aware to do such childish and unproducerish and braggidocious type things.

My bachelorette in Vegas was amazing and ridiculous in every way, involved every thinkable and reproachable bachelorette cliche. IT IS SO LIBERATING TO JUST EMBRACE THE CLICHE BY WHICH I MEAN INFLATABLE PENIS. It was a nearly flawless weekend, except that I was missing my other 3 power sources, Blaine and Carrie and Erin, who are all engaged in various massive life things, babies, moving, etc, and couldn’t make it.  I leave these pictures here so that Bekah five years from now, as she lies literally covered in babies and bills and responsibilities, will never forget.

That time when Julien made MATCHING BRIDESTETTER SHIRTS, see also, the pool:

The first night when we all wore little black things and did tequila shots and managed a group bathtub picture:

The squad, hot and always game:

When we waltzed into a club at midnight, were told to deflate the inflatable penis which was a strange group activity, then we  happened upon a famous DJ, danced til Formation came on,  then bounced:

CREEPY RUSSIAN DOG SHOW (?!)

When we ordered sandwiches that never came:

NEVER FORGET, OLD MOM BEKAH. POUR SOME TEQUILA. SIP IT. WEAR YOUR BRIDE SASH QUIETLY AND ALONE IN YOUR ROOM. NEVER FORGET.

THE DIXIE CHICKS, or the Pandora station in my brain all the time unless of course it’s December at which point it’s country Christmas,  the emotional raw material for 60% of my plays, the soundtrack to my years 16-18, ARE GOING ON TOUR IN 2016. I never got to see these gals in my youth, and so I will be taking my adult money and purchasing BOX SEATS so that I can SEE THEIR FACES SING INTO THEM WITH BOTH VOLUME AND GRATITUDE. Here’s hoping they play, you know, nothing but old songs and the occasional Rihanna cover.

Me: alright, Grandma, I’m taking off for the train station!

Grandma: Okay, did you eat anything yet?

Me: No, I was just gonna grab something.

Grandma: Okay, because I made you some snacks. (Presents the most beautifully and logically assembled bag of snack there ever was.) Just some cheese and crackers and some of my bread I made with my zucchinis from the garden and some fruit and nuts and some apple slices in orange juice so they won’t get brown, would you like that?

Me: (weeping) YES. YES I WOULD LIKE THAT VERY MUCH.

Last night, I stepped into my closet that I can sort of step into so let’s just say it’s  a walk in closet but really when I step inside of it I can’t so much turn around but HEY NOBODY’S PERFECT. I looked at my clothes, and suddenly, everything felt — too young. I thought to myself, like I actually thought to myself, all of these clothes are made for large children. None of these things are appropriate for a woman of my age. And then, all day today, I’ve felt strangely — open? Aware? Grateful and strong? Something has shifted. Perhaps one of my moons went all the way around my head, or perhaps, is it possible, that I am a woman now?

AM I A WOMAN NOW?

Sure, I perhaps grumble the tiniest when I pay my dues to the Writer’s Guild (wait — have I paid my dues lately? I should pay my dues. SORRY, THE GUILD!) but it is 100% worth it once December rolls around and the screeners start coming in, and you bring them all home with you for Christmas, and suddenly, to your Dad and brothers, you are the GREATEST PERSON ALIVE. Going to the movies is great but also there are the annoying things like ‘parking’ and ‘lines’ and ‘other human beings.’ This way, we get to screen the latest flicks from the comfort of my Dad’s manden buried beneath seasonal throws. THANKS, SANTA GUILD!

I have a problem. I am addicted to making and decorating Christmas cookies. I approach it with the same obsession and mania and precision that say, a heroin addict might approach their Fix. It settles me.

Worse things I could be addicted to:

- heroin

- drinking paint

- pony play (in which you dress up like a pony and feel as if you’ve found yourself and let people ride and pet you)

- a certain TLC show called My Strange Addiction in which people are addicted to things like drinking paint and pony play which I am not addicted to at all