Two

There are so many great things that come in two…

Burgers on a Big Mac, eyes, hands, elbows, boobies (since we’re on body parts), balls (unless you’re Lance Armstrong), twins, high heels…

… and my kid. There are not two of him, but he is now two.

Like, seriously, where the fuck did those two years go?!

I suppose they were lost in the melee of diapers, animal flashcards, and Playdoh. As much as I’d like to admit that I’m mostly the same person that I was before him, I really am not. I talk to other mothers about their kids now, (sporadically) and get a ridiculous thrill out of the fact that my boy mimics every word that comes out of my mouth. (I still retain my sailor’s vocabulary, but at least only I realize it when my kid is yelling “FUCK”. )

In other ways, I am still me. I don’t like to cook still, and very closely resemble Cher’s character in the movie Mermaids when it comes to preparing meals. (Finger foods, finger foods.) I still enjoy whiskey at times, and other assorted adult beverages, and sometimes wonder if, as he gets older, my kid will recognize the tell-tale signs of my tipsiness.

I am glad that I now have a little person to drag around to fun things like the zoo and the science museum, as I did not exactly enjoy coming off as a creeper/pedophile when frequenting such places before motherhood. Too, I like this having a young one to throw themed birthday parties for. (We just had a Dr. Seuss one.)

Clearly, I have lost my edge when it comes to writing, because it seems that I am rambling now, and have written a post of little or no interest, so I think it’s time to say goodbye for the night.

So farewell for now, dear readers. I just wanted to let you know I’m still around.

XOXO

 

Things One Thinks In a Dark Theatre

This past weekend, I got a chance to hang with my homie Delightful and experience an incredible production of the musical rock opera Rent.  I was surprised such a small-town theatre could do such a superb job putting on a Broadway musical, but there it was. It was so good, in fact, that the adorable gay couple next to me cried for the entirety of two songs after Angel died, and so amazing that I am dragging a few of my peeps to it again this Sunday.

Anyhoo, it seems a writer’s mind (or a psychopath’s, if you prefer) is never silenced, even when faced with a much-younger gorgeous man singing about his fictional druggy skank of a girlfriend. Here are just a few of the things I found myself thinking…

The guy playing Roger is beautiful. Like, for real, a curly-headed somewhat scrawny Adonis, who can sing. What?! This is only his second role in a stage production ever?! He’s so gorgeous. 

I should really take voice lessons. It’s utterly ridiculous that I’m not performing in plays of this caliber.

The guy playing Roger is beautiful. I wonder what he’d do if I just ran out on stage and kissed him….

Ok, who am I kidding? I can’t sing like these people, even with voice lessons. I could at least play the keyboard. Yeah, I should do that.

Oh! We’re going to Half-Priced Books after this! WOOHOOO!!!!

The guy playing Roger sings like an angel. I really wish he’d quit kissing that girl in the fishnets.

I wonder how many of these actors watched the movie version of Rent a million times. It’s uncanny how closely they sound like the actors in that when they sing.

Oops. I wonder if that old couple in the front row over there were expecting the facefull of ass they just saw?

I really wish the guy playing Roger was named something other than Roger. What kind name is Roger for a rock god?!

I honestly don’t know where to comfortably put my legs. I didn’t realize “front row” actually meant “center stage”.

OK, do the actors think its weird that I’m staring at them when they sing? I mean, if I were a few rows back, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but yeah, I can practically smell Tom Collins breath here…. but where else am I supposed to look? There’s no one else on stage.

The guy playing Roger is so beautiful. I wonder if he needs someone to help him get into costume… (I’m quite aware I sound like a complete nincompoop, but you didn’t see the guy playing Roger, so shut up.)

I just got chills when that girl hit that note. I want to be able to give people chills, dammit!

I’ve just decided Rent is my favorite musical.

I wonder if this theatre realizes how completely white all their characters are. Wasn’t that the whole point of this play? To show diversity? Fuckin’ Minnesota, I tell ya.

The girl playing Mimi has the tiniest hands ever. I think her fingers are shorter than mine.

La vie Boheme? More like, la vie the guy playing Roger!

For the record, Delightfulness agreed with me on the beautifulness of Roger.

Mad As A Scientist

I found a wonderful new website which supplies me with writing prompts. While I long to be original and creative, sometimes my brain is simply overworked and that cannot always be. These are the instances when I need a little push, push. (Insert Cinderella music here)

So the prompt that appealed to me was- If you were a mad scientist and could cure one disease, what would it be and why?

Let me don my lab coat (which has nothing underneath) and my specs. Ok, here we go.

I would cure….. stupidity.

What’s that you say? Stupidity is not a disease? I beg to differ infinite.

No, it is not a fatal disease, unless at some point I am given permission to put the Stupids out of their misery; then, oh yes. There will be blood.
Stupidity, like a cancer, eats away at brainflesh. Not only the sanity of those who suffer from it, but also those who come in direct and prolonged contact with said people. Left to run rampant. it causes even the most patient and even-tempered of individuals to hold their heads in agony and scream, “WHY?! WHY, LORD WHY?!” at the heavens. Having done this exact thing at work on a daily basis, I am physical proof that stupidity does not only affect those afflicted.

Just a few of the symptoms of stupidity are: swerving while driving because of various forms of cell phone use, choosing to wear extensively smaller sizes of clothes than one should with the thought that they will make you look skinnier, not doing what smarter than you people (like me) tell you to do, yelling at a friend because you do not approve of her boyfriend because he rejected you long ago, getting engaged to a woman while continuing to fuck other women- the list is endless.

It is true that we should have sympathy for those who have contracted this horrible disease; I believe we should even supply housing for them. Does it not seem a good idea to round up all the Stupids and herd them into a quarantined space so as not to have their sickness affect the rest of us? We’ve done it to the Crazies, and that seemed to work. (Although I honestly believe that electric shock treatment would be more beneficial to the Stupids.)

So yes, it is very clear to me that if ever I become a mad scientist, my duty shall be to cure Stupidity. Now where’s my shotgun?

In Mind

 

If you ever wonder what my mind looks like…