Sacrilege Part Deux - Is Denny's Mecca?

I feel a yearning...a call. This is God slapped between two slices of sour-dough and then grilled to perfection..

I am obviously going to hell. And I am obviously going to be fat.

Hot.

Sacrilege

#1 I call myself a blogger.

#2 I like the Crayola Box of 24 better than the Box of 64 with the Built-In Sharpener.

It's a little known fact...I like to color. I like to color in coloring books. The past-time is growing ever more elusive because...well...so are coloring books. Now they sell activity books. Activity books? Me no likey.

I think they suck in a major way.

Sucko mujero.

But I discovered something exciting and new. No, not love, you tv theme song fanatics.

Giant coloring pages.

Yes, giant pages with thick lines and large, wide-open spaces to fill. Delicious.

But back to the titular sacrilege.

The Crayola Box of 64 with the Built-In Sharpener was always the Holy Grail, Mecca, Alpha Centurion. For all of us. I mean it had "flesh" as a color, for Yahweh's sake. (This actually prompted an interesting racial discussion between Poppy and me when I was a wee tart.)

But I've learned that I don't like that much choice. (No, not racial color choice but crayon color choice.) Sometimes that much choice binds me up. (And yes, I mean fecally.) I need some rules, some limitations, some direction, in order to keep everything moving freely in the right direction.

So, I'm sticking with the 24. Which is good. I just learned they discontinued the 64.

My 3 Part Happy Anniversary Letter

Part 1

you've been married thirty years. THIRTY YEARS? that would make me...um...middle-aged.

this is not happening.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!


Part 2

oh...don't think i'm not selfish enough to run amok with your special day.

remember poppy's extubation?

i'll do anything for attention.

or a laugh.


Part 3

happy freakin' 30th anniversary.

i don't know what to write. my head and heart are full of so many happy, meaningful memories i can't see straight or type coherently.

but here we go...

your wedding? not one of those memories. i really only remember it through the pictures. i was 17. i was drunk. at least i remained standing for your special day. the pictures are quite beautiful. i hear it was grand.

all the fun cards i would get from "ky" when he was a baby. MY he was precocious. i still have the one where he recounted throwing up all over mommy.

the christmas i had just booked "beauty and the beast" when you made it all about that. i LOVED that. it wasn't enough that my dream came true, but you wanted to celebrate it in such a big way. WHO DOES THAT? (well...you both do. and still do. everyone is pea green with envy over my kevin kline award coach bag. i'm still waiting for kevin to arrive in the mail. i plan to carry him around in my pretty bag.)

your coming to god knows how many performances at mauschwitz...capped only by your willingness to flip mickey the bird in the bitter end.

it's those little gestures that count.

toodles-getting me into lorna's house and the best apartment deal EVER. it was sweet and nightmare-inducing to learn how much lorna's "cat" loved you.

toodles-hiring me at dr when everything went kaboom. i think i did an okay job. i know i did my best to help get you outta there.

mj- i never once witnessed you do a drive-by how are you. exquisite.

mj-responding that yes i could call you my sister and that you had been doing so for years. (okay...some tears just plopped on the keyboard 'cause that was a huge moment for me.)

toodles-on the flip side, lovely and hysterical phonecalls while you're driving. you have to love someone who, once the "car anal game" is explained, moans, "oh my god, that's disgusting!" and then just plays it and plays it and plays it. (explain it tommy.) you may have been indulging me. i like to be indulged. sue me.

what i fondly refer to as "the mother's day massacre." witnessing you both deal so beautifully with that mass exodus was astounding. in lesser hands it could have redefined you in a dramatically different way, but not you guys. i remain in awe.

paul. the one priest i can actually hear. thank you.

your sun room. the most peaceful place on the face of the earth (or really in the galaxy).

r-leigh. i know i met her first but thank you for letting us love one another so hard. she's my favorite blonde.

EVERY HOLIDAY EVER. from your driving up to nanapop's house in your pjs in the "johnny chose to hit a tree instead of a herd of rabbits" torino to new years eve and "how many women does it take to caja quadrada? dos. la interna y la exterma" to thanksgiving with the rowdy delicious schratwiesers to the most recent christmas that had so much love floating in the air it was enveloping.

ky and gav. i love them. they make my life far more special than i dreamed of it being.

as have you both. i love you and cherish you and can't wait to see what happens in your next thirty years of marriage. thank you so for letting me be a part of the ride.

love you tons and more,
me

Quote of the Week

The air between the trapeze and the catch? That's where the magic lives... - TIZ

Perhaps...

...tomorrow. Perhaps the day AFTER tomorrow, which is today. Wheee!

Okay...so...when last seen, our haughty heroine was having a delicious birthday weekend with the Nana.

And then it ended. Tragic, turgid bitter tale.

Now Nana said it. I did not. "I'm like packing for a baby." It's true. Nana monitors, games, formula (aka, more medication than GOD), clothing bags and food packed for the trip. Got it all, and her, and ME, in the Volvo for the ride back to her house.

What did I forget? What did I forget?

I didn't realize it until we were caught in a five-mile back-up due to an accident. I needed to call my brudder to tell him we would be running late when I notice...

My purse.

Is not there.

My purse...with my wallet (license, cash, credit cards), cellphone AND SANITY.

This is when I realize the gas tank is perilously close to empty. Since I've driven a total of 20 miles in the car in 4 days, I'm a little freaked. It's not my car, so I've got keine clue what kind of reserves there are.

And there's the Nana. We finally work out if we get through the stop-and-start traffic, I will hit the nearest gas station with her credit card.

We get through the crap traffic and hit the nearest gas station with her credit card.

And I can't get the gas door open. At all. I feel the fool. I can't find a button or lever or NUTTIN. We check the manual...as long as the driver's door is unlocked the gas tank door should be as well.

LYING THIEVING WHORES.

I ask a cute guy if he can figure it out. This is rough for me 'cause I'm nothing if not VAIN and I might as well be back in eighth grade with glasses and braces and stringy hair and zits. THAT'S how I was feeling.

Cute though he was, he couldn't figure it out either.

Now, here's the kicker. I have to keep turning off the engine which turns off the air-conditioning which turns off the Nana. She's delicate. I am not allowed to Kentucky Fry Nana.

I try the gas station attendant. Equally clueless we go our merry way and hope to make it to Nana's house. She suggests I pray. I suggest I drive. She suggests I pray while driving. I suggest that anyone who does anything other than driving while driving has their head stuck up their butt.

Nice. I'm a nice girl.

We make it to the Nana house with gas to spare. My brudder (of the chocolate Hostess Cream-Filled Cupcake birthday cake fame) can't even figure out how to pop that persnickety little puppy.

I'm no longer feeling incredibly assholian.

We call the Volvowner and HE can't figure it out.

We call the Volvo dealer and they...wait for it...can't figure it out and suggest we BREAK THE DOOR.

Assholes.

At this point, I dig into spoonfuls of peanut butter because I am FREAKING OUT. I feel like this is all my fault...like world hunger. I'm some kind of sensory defensive and rocking and spoonfuls of peanut butter calm me down.

Who knew?

Since we can't reach Volvowner and I am loathe to disfigure the cute car without his permission, I decide to get on a train and jog back to my cozy getaway and walk R-Leigh the Wonderdog.

THEN Wonderbrudder magically finds something online, we go through the trunk, he pulls the siding away AND

He eases open that cranky little bugger of a door.

I hug him, kiss the Nana goodbye (all the whilst apologizing for my crankiness). Wait, I forgot to tell you, during the hour and a half trip I REALLY had to pee. AND I had my period. You couldn't WRITE this shit.

Okay, so I apologize, borrow a couple of bucks, find high octane gas for $2.96 a gallon (MIRACLE), buy some TaB at the local market, get on the road, hit massive rush hour traffic, get back in an hour fifteen and am greeted by the best dog in the world.

After her potty run, I find a Red Stripe and jump in the pool fully clothed. Where I remain for the next two hours.

Life is good.

But I wanna know where the other .8 ounces of Red Stripe went.

Tomorrow...

...perhaps, I will regale you with tales of today. Tragic, turgid, bitter tales.

But today I tell of the weekend.

I turned old on Saturday. And Nana (aka, my mommy) showed up to have a girls' weekend that was made possible by the generosity and the exquisite event-planning of the Fairfield Tizzies.

Lunch (with anudder brudder) at Centro's, thanks to my bro and sis.

Birthday cake of Hostess Cream-Filled Cupcakes (FAV) thanks to thoughtful udder brudder.

Manicures, thanks to delicious nephews.

Pedicures, thanks to bro and sis.

Floating in the pool-priceless.

A wicked game of Scrabble poolside.

Dinner from The Pantry, thanks to bro and sis.

A special showing (in a giant fluffy bed) of THE YOUNG ELIZABETH, thanks to Netflix and me.

Breakfast culled from Fage yogurt and Sour Cherry preserves, courtesy of sis.

Prayers, thanks to Nana. (And God, I guess. I was doing laps.)

Lunch of the most delicious soups ever from The Pantry, under the auspices of bro and sis.

Movie and popcorn, the same. (Not mentioning movie name CAUSE IT SUCKED but it was lovely to spend time with the Nana...and lovely to consume butter-flavored topping.)

New book, thanks to Nana.

Floating in the pool-priceless.

A wickeder game of Scrabble.

Dinner of sloppy seconds. Yum.

A special showing (in same giant fluff bed) of THE BIG EASY. That'd be Netflix et moi encore. Nana LOVES Dennis Quaid in this one.

Another delicious breakfast of naughty cherry yogurt and some stand-over-the-sink-slurpable nectarines.

Prayers, thanks to Nana (and probably God).

Lunch of sloppier, soppier, more delicious seconds.

I loved all this. Deeply. Mainly because the Nana was there. I never get her all to myself. It just doesn't happen. The last time was 5 years ago, soon after Pop died, when I took over her care for a week.

And she tore her meniscus the first day.

This was waaaaaaaaaaaay more fun.

I'll take this any day.

Happy Birthday to us. And thank you to everyone who made it soooooooooooo gooooooooood.

love Love LOVE

VACATION

Ya know, I was about to regale you with the lyrics to the Go-Go's anthem, VACATION, but realized it had absofreakinlutely nothing to do with my life.

Really.

"Still haven't gotten over you yet?"

Pshaw. I'm over EVERYone.

It's been 16 months since I had a break. Please consult VACAY IN THE CITAY for a rehashing of the vacation in my apartment.

And for you weenies out there, no, I don't count my recent 165 day weekend in any way, shape or forum as a vacation, because...well...sistah here was looking for the work. Looking hard. Looking everywhere.

And I found it. And just worked 15 weeks straight and if you've been following the Travels and Travails of TiZ, you know I NEED A FUCKING VACATION...if only to let my body heal.

It started at 2:04 this afternoon when I finished off a previously opened bottle of wine and jumped in the pool. My brother's pool. He and his wife (officially, as of last year, my sister) graciously lent me their house for nine days as an artist's retreat. Here I will read, float in the pool, tend to R-Leigh the WonderDog, spend a birthday weekend with the Nana and hopefully write.

And as you've perhaps noticed...drink.

The vacay was supposed to start when I awakened. However, that's not what the universe had in store pour pauvre petit moi. Niggly little things cropped up and crept out and made me absofreakinlutely bonkers. A huge business mailing, emails to be returned (and returned... again), Workers' Comp crap, jewelry to be fixed, TaB to be found (I'm enjoying a frosty Cherry Diet Dr. Pepper. Quite good.), Fairfield county to be driven through (which has the worst drivers per capita in, I believe, the entire universe), travel to be arranged for my next job (Why, sweet Jesus, does management insist we get up and out there at the crack of AsS? Don't they realize we're gonna get bored, get drunk and be a mess for the first day of rehearsal? Get us there late and we'll just pass out, awakening sans hangovers. Oh, WHEN I RULE THE WORLD!)...

Wait, where was I?

Oh yes, complaining.

At 2:04 pm, I finally changed the outgoing message on my mobile, shut off the ringer, downed the wine and float (floated? floatededed?) in the pool.

And I believe Michael Chabon is a fabulous writer.

And Happy Birthday to me. Tomorrow I am old.

Hopefully I will write. I do not wish to retreat from that anymore.

It Was Just a River

He came. Sondheim came. He saw. He whatever-ed.

And it wasn't denial on my part. By the time he came, I couldn't have cared less.

I WANTED TO CARE. It's Stephen Sondheim, the man who had made my career infinitely more interesting, for feck's sake.

I had had a few hits of bourbon* in the cube after my last chute shit, sharing a sweet moment with friends who were so happy and relieved that I survived.

As I lie there dead, I felt the bourbon like a lovely drip i.v. taking away my foot, finger and back pain along with psychic sorrow...and some cognitive function. I got through my one solo line, sang a wicked gorgeous high d and c# at the end (at least to my sauced ear), and downstairs I went.

And I met a nice man with a beard who seemed happy with what we had done.

And that was the extent of it for me. All I wanted to do was scrub off my make-up.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK-doodles.

Next time I'll care. I promise.

*This is not my usual m.o. Like NEVER. But just this once, it was good. Honestly, if you knew how bad it had gotten, you would have done the same.

DeNial

Denial is not just a river in Africa.

Stephen Sondheim is coming to see our little skit tonight. And I would like to say I'm a little daunted.

But I'm not.

Maybe I will be when all is said and done. Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe the footlights will flame and I will freak.

But I doubt it.

I'm tired and my body hurts in so many different places. I can take it when it's one or two. I can even go about my merry way and push the pain away successfully (often too successfully) when it's just one or two.

But it's more than one or two.

And I'm ready to go home.

I would just like to honor Da Man, go looking for Lucy once more and then jiggety jig all the way back to my mountain aerie.

Alms, alms, for a mis'rable woman...

My Morning Laugh

I am mad for this guy...

There is Very Little...

...that a hot bath, a familiar bed and familiar touch can't cure.

That's why I'm saying.

Sometimes I'm cryptic.

And I don't mind.

A Re-Post

In celebration of Andrew Solomon's beautiful memorial in this month's Yale Alumni Magazine...

WHY IS THE MEASURE OF LOVE LOSS?

TERRY K

in the grand tradition of poppy tiz and inappropriate email notifications...you can stop here if you wish.

my beloved terry %^&*&*(%^%%))*&&$@late last week. i don't know when. i don't know how. i don't know why. i do know where...the hills of abruzzo. 'cause that's terry.i am beyond bereft and doubt i will ever want to talk about it. a very bright light (we're talking a super trooper) is gone from my life. just wanted to let you know so that in a couple months you don't go "how IS that terry" and i have to say, "dead."

ok. love you. don't try this at home.

tons,
me

____________________________

Above is the email I sent to my siblings Wednesday last. To say the least, I did not meet the writing deadlines I had set for myself. I couldn’t cross the line of death. And before you ask, yes, I webding redacted the particulars of his passing. T’ain’t none of your business. Read Il Tempo and translate if you're curious. As I correctly projected, I don’t wish to talk about it. And I’m not going to make it easy for you.

Because it hasn’t been easy for me. (I love to share the wealth. Really…no thanks necessary.)

I will not write of his wraith, but I will of Terry’s wrought life...as i knew it. Glorious Terry whom I met almost 28 years ago. Snapshots of Terry—in no particular order other than what my pan-fried brain proffers…(and if you click on the links, you'll know just how pan-fried it is)

___________________________

My first dance party at Yale with the cast of Grease. I was Patty Simcox (aka, Patty Sucks Cocks) and Terry was Doodie. Terry, Penny, Scott, Tom, Tommy, Eddy, Rox, Charlie, et al and I had such fun moving generously through space to the Jackson 5 that it became a nightly post-rehearsal event. We could take over any party. And we did. Eventually Terry and I went rogue, a virtual Wang Chung Fred and Ginger. We did flips, we did splits, we climbed tables and walls. We were so outrageous, an entire dining hall full of Yalies broke into applause when Terry dropped me on my head. Terry hates that I tell that story. But I hate that Terry is dead, so we’re even.

Not.

Late night port and Chopin nocturne dates. This was quite a novelty for someone raised on Velveeta (and that someone was NOT Terry).

Napping. Terry was a great napper. As was I. (As AM I since I heard of his passing. I’ve slept 48 hours in four days. Epic.) Together, we were unstoppable. Similarly sized, we could spoonboth ways. I have never met a comparable nap master and doubt I ever will.

His Deerstalker cloak and cap. Oh damn, he was eccentric and adorable. Yale’s own Sherlock Holmes.

Terry grinning, “Coming to my party?” as he pulled a flier from hiscape. Everyone remembers this, yet I have no recollection. I never got a flier. He just assumed I’d be there. I love that assumption.

Terry writing, “Starring %&*)&%#)_&%$” on every Choruses of the World poster on the Yale campus.

Terry swapping underwear with me at Avery Fisher Hall for the Choruses of the World concert to help alleviate my juvey jitters. It was a little daunting to make my AFH debut at 19. He understood. Lucky we were similarly sized. (Okay...my butt was bigger even then. Shut up.)

Terry treating me to the Empire Diner post AFH so I could see the drag queens. And have a Windex cocktail. All to alleviate my post-show jitters.

Terry dressing me in his clothes so I wouldn’t have to walk the walk of shame the morning after his toga party. Does anyone have the flier I never received? I’ll pay a pretty penny.

Terry making his own holiday cards, loaded with shiny shit that would shoot out of them, along with three dimensional boingy shards and antennae. Design marvels.

Terry sending postcards of Michelangelo’s David to my parents’ house just to test Poppy’s love for him. I got in trouble. Terry got love. (This was especially funny as I had an ex named David who Poppy hated and called "David Who?")

Terry watching in disgust as I piled a piece of pound cake with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a cherry on top.

Terry asking, “Why don’t you just manually apply it to your thighs? That’s where it’s going anyway.”

Terry manually applying said pound cake to my left thigh. Guess where the cherry went?

Terry and I laughing.

Terry explaining to me in depth that although most people attend Yale to learn and some go for life experience, I was there to give pleasure to others. (This could have confused Velveeta girl.)

Terry and I attending the Branford Ball in matching tails. We wereandrogy-hot.

Terry residing in a different college at Yale every year. This was virtually impossible to accomplish and only his vast charm could have cooed this coup.

Terry and I in the chorus of the Yale School of Music’s production of Die Fledermaus. Our onstage romance was so dear, famedMaestro John Mauceri asked us to tone it down as we were upstaging the principals. Our executive decision? We were doin' just fine and we should keep up our dear work, all the while waving to the Maestro.

Terry, BLONDE, as the Emcee in Cabaret. Funny, heartbreaking and apocalyptic all rolled into one.

Terry and I finding one another backstage in the Provincetown Playhouse by singing the Papageno Papagena duet.

Terry and I drinking cappuccino at his home away from home,Café Dante.

Terry putting up with caffeinated me.

Terry saying "wach auf" to me in the antique featherbed in his parents flat in Geneva’s Alte Stadt. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve been awakened by that joyous, open face so full of possibilities for the day.

Terry and I swing dancing at Lincoln Center Midsummer Night Swing. We had such funbehind the barricade, they let us in for free.

Terry and I diving into one another in our manic monkey ways.

Terry welling up when he discovered we’d been in London concurrently and he’d missed seeing me perform.

Terry and I speaking our strange mix of German, English and Italian—Germenglian.

Terry declaring, “I don’t remember Yale. I remember you.”

Terry’s handwriting—his script an art form in and of itself.

Terry visiting me my last trip to London.*

Terry’s origami lecture notebooks. Oh, I’d give my left arm…

Terry lecturing at NYU on homo-eroticism in Mussolini era architecture. He rocked. I titled it “Balls to the Walls.” Terry kissed me.

Terry kissing me goodbye—always in the rain.

____________________________

This is what I have. When all is said and done, I guess it’s a lot. But it was supposed to be more. Terry lived life fully, whimsically and eloquently. And I believe he made everyone feel as I did…like the only person in his world.

This is what I have.

Mein Liebling Terry,

Mi sento la mancanza di te più di posso immaginare. I am sad and so sorry. Finché ti vedo, spero dass Sie die beste dance party ever mit Lynette haben.

I love you, my Papageno.

The measure of this loss is love.

THE TiZandAsS GUIDE TO DRESSING ROOM ETIQUETTE

(from an upcoming tome, me hopes)

You’re not always a star. When you are, your private dressing room is your castle…you are the queen of your domain and most anything goes…including sex. But when you have to share with numerous lassies…

#1 Don’t have sex in the communal dressing room. Not even with yourself.

#2 Like Vegas, what happens in the dressing room stays in the dressing room. I think there should be a secret handshake of confidentiality (perhaps involving some blood) to seal the deal. It can be a confessional, group therapy and a 12-step program (“Hello, my name is Myrtle and I’m an actor.”) all rolled into one ginormous neurotic cosmos. It should all stay in there.

#3 That being said, try to leave some of your troubles at home. I don’t always want to hear the dirty details. We’re colleagues. We may be friends but that’s not a given. And don’t ask me about my troubles. Don’t ask me how my mother is after the show goes up when you know damn well she’s had a stroke and lost twenty pounds. It’s especially rude of you when I have to go on and make people laugh. Because what you may not know is that I just learned my mother had another stroke, has lost her power of speech again and I would rather open my wrists in a warm bath than talk about it.

#4 That question being asked, please don’t be offended when I respond, “I don’t want to talk about it” and flee for my life.

#5 Entire conversations held in hushed tones with heads ducked? Rude. Take it onstage where it belongs.

#6 Don’t smirk about a comment your dressing roommate has made believing she can’t see you. THERE ARE MIRRORS, PEOPLE! I don’t think you want to hear me (or anyone) say, “Do you care to repeat that to my face?” Or do you? Hmmmmm.

#7 If someone says to you, “Have a good show!” as they leave for their entrance, don’t ignore them. Definitely don’t smirk. Because when they reach deck they mutter the “C” word under their breath…and they mean you.

#8 Cameras in the dressing room? Tricky. THERE ARE MIRRORS, PEOPLE! And inevitably someone is reflected buck naked strapping on some tights. Ask DLC.

#8 Try not to use the dressing room toilet to drop the kids off at the pool. If it’s the only one, go ahead but bring matches…and air-fresheners…and a sheepish grin. I, personally, have perfected the sheepish grin. So I’ve got a nervous stomach. Sue me.

#9 Do not ask your colleagues if they are interested in watching you model the bikinis you just bought for your romantic vacay with your married lover. They’re probably not interested. They may throw shit at you.

#10 Technology is great. but if you’re going to play on your computer or your game boy or your iPhone or other fancy-shmancy gadget, bring earbuds or turn the sound off completely. Since I’m sitting three feet away and can’t see the particular YouTube video with cute fuzzy animals you’re cackling over, I sure as shit don’t want to listen to it.

#11 Phone on silent please. If it rings I will answer it . Ask Betty Buckley. Vibrate isn’t good enough…unless you want me to do something kinky with it (and that’s the one instance where rule #1 doesn’t apply).

#12 Phone conversations during a show? COME ON. Be ecstatic you’re working. Be involved in the experience. Do you really need to learn that your grandmother died in the middle of a show? I think it can wait twenty minutes, don’t you? She is dead after all.

#13 Singing after half hour will get you slapped every which way to Sunday. Warm up at home or somewhere else in the theater before half hour. We all know you’re talented—shut the fuck up. And coming from the girl with cords of steel…if you’ve done all that and STILL need to warm up after half hour, yous got a problem with your technique. Take some lessons.

#14 No one else wants to hear how well your career is going. We’re all jealous. Okay…maybe not always. Maybe mention it once so we can congratulate you through gritted grins and then drop it. Don’t worry. The good things are still happening to you and you are still the center of your universe. You’re just not the center of our respective universes.

#15 Try to keep your stuff in your designated area and not spill over into other people’s space. It’s especially helpful during quick changes since some people (me) are Porky Pig and have a hard enough time finding the necklace that goes with the earrings that go with the bracelet…that is always at large.

#16 Try not to complain about your scene partner to everyone. There’s something truly unsightly about that. Yes, I know once I kept score on my mirror how many times my scene partner got the show right, but eight of the nine other women in the room had no idea what those dastardly hash marks were about.

#17 Cleanliness is next to godliness.

#18 No perfume please.

#19 Discussing reviews is uncool. There is always someone who chooses not to read them. Be respectful.

And remember...

#20 You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

Follow most of these rules and most anyone will love to share a dressing room with you. And that makes for a happy carny trash family.

Here I Sit...

Here I sit so happily on a day off. It's my second day off in a row and I'm in piggy pig pig heaven. I haven't really gotten out of the bed other than to grab food and TaB. I think my house is concerned...they knock, they check, they're sweet. And here is sit...or lounge...or lie.

The only thing that could possibly have improved today was if it had taken place in its entirety in a hammock. But since I hogged a hammock for three hours yesterday, inviting a few special people to become enveloped in my web, I really can't complain.

Or can I?

Tomorrow I will return to the land of the able-bodied and scatter-brained. To the emotionally generous and the stupidly petulant. To the control freaks and the free-spirits.

But today I sit with me.

Wheeee.

Quote of the Week

If this is going to be a pissing contest then you better bring an umbrella.--NCIS