Oh please, not NOW!

Last night, I felt the beginnings of a cold descend upon me--achy-ness, bone-deep fatigue, violent sneezes, and general orneriness (if that's a word--it certainly is a mood...just ask Linda). Started pounding echinasea (SP?) and vitamin C, went to bed as soon as possible (okay, after West Wing), and then slept in this morning (bless you, Linda, for feeding the herd), and now still feel a litte on the brink of illness, but perhaps drawn away a bit.

Goddess, I hope so! The timing could not be worse, with my immediate future including a comedy benefit tomorrow, comedy show in Boston Sunday, and business trip to NYC Monday-Wednesday (including an open mic), it would be a very, very bad time to get sick. Which means it still could happen--whatever is trying to stake a claim in my body could suddenly roar back and knock me on my butt.

Colds are mean that way, in my experience. I learned this young. When I was in grade school, I was a crossing guard. I don't remember which year it was, but there was a contest for crossing guards involving an all-expenses-paid trip to Wisconsin Dells (a very tacky theme park, but I was little and didn't care about such things--plus, my family didn't do theme park vacations, so I wanted to go desperately). I think a vote was involved, and somehow, I won. I WON!

Of course, I fell ill just before the trip, and the second-in-line, Mary M., went in my stead. I tried to be gracious and all (I liked Mary and think she came from an even more travel-adverse family than mine, if that was possible), but it hurt. I think I did finally get to the Dells when I was 11, but I was too old by then to enjoy it. Sigh.

That this was a little under 40 years ago is something I'm trying not to dwell on; the moral of the story being colds can mess up your life, and I'm praying this one is just here to inflict a little humility on my person. Humility is good.

Colds, on the other hand, are a drag.

And speaking of drags, thinking of Mary M. reminded me also of the creepy priest at Saint Mary's we endured while growing up. Mary was one of those girls who developed early (me, I'm still waiting). Our priest couldn't help but make mention of this fact during Catechism--Catechism! I don't know how Mary kept showing up every Wednesday, but she did. Made me feel sorry for her, and mad at the priest.

Wonder whatever happened to the old perv?

More importantly: Whatever happened to Mary?

Juvenile, but effective

I think living under the quiet siege that is illness is getting to me. Linda's home again today, sleeping the sleep of the sick, and I think trying to keep quiet and not disturb her sleep is making me a little cranky.

Okay, a lot cranky. And another day of rain/drizzle isn't helping matters.

I've become so cranky, in fact, that I found myself giving someone The Finger on the drive to Stop & Shop. Now, this person did pull right out in front of my car (containing me and my two darling dogs) as though we weren't there (and nobody could say they didn't see my Big Red coming--they'd be laughed out of court if they did), so she was out of line, but--The Finger?!

How old am I, for crying out loud? Worse still, before this incident, I spent my breakfast reading about meditation and the power of maintaining one's contact with God/Higher Power/whatever works for you, and as a result, engaged in a walking meditation while out with the beasties to improve said contact. When I wasn't trying to keep from falling on my keister, that is (still a lot of ice out there despite days of rain, I'm sorry to report).

Yeah, that meditation sure did the trick, eh? Or else this morning's episode signals I was so far removed from Him/Her/It, giving The Finger was a more moderate response than what I might have come up with had I not tapped in this a.m.

Horrors!

If that weren't humbling enough, I cursed at the automated checkout at Stop & Shop. It kept saying that the bagging area was full, as if I gave a rat's ass whether the bagging area were sated or not.

The Finger and cursing inanimate objects--no, this is not a high holy day for yours truly, not in the least....

Cruel and unusual cold

There is a terrible sickness sweeping the land, it seems. My sweetie Linda has it, as does my comic friend Jennifer. It's not just the symptoms--never-ending coughs, aches and wooziness--the damn thing saps the spirit. Both are miserable and appear to have no hope of living normal lives again. See Jennifer's post on the subject, for an inkling as to where this bug takes an ordinarily buoyant soul.

We know that's not the case, but having been in more than one awful-if-temporary situation that feels permanent, I know this despair.

Poor ducks.

Plus, it's a rainy day and a Monday, which the Carpenters tell us is a depressing scenario if only one of these features (rain, Monday) is at play.

Poor ducks x 2.

Speaking of ducks, took the dogs out for a walk/soak this a.m., and they were annoyed with me the entire time. They seem to think I am subjecting them to rain on purpose, that I have a beautiful, sunny day in my back pocket that I'm just too stingy to pull out. As if.

Lastly, noticed a disturbing trend in my morning reading--there are a lot of absolute wackos living in my home state, and they have been in the news quite a bit. Two recent examples: There's the guy who killed a judge's husband and mother--he was from Chicago, but killed himself just outside of Milwaukee (why he couldn't have done that in the first place--before he killed innocent people--mystifies me). Then there was the guy who opened fire on his fundamentalist congregation in the Milwaukee suburbs. Apparently, all of the minister's talk of the coming apocalypse got on his nerves.

Well, I can certainly understand being upset about hearing hoo-hah in church, but my response is never to darken the church's door again--not to open fire.

What a world, what a world....

What nerve, eh?

It was a bustling day at Dog Heaven--it's warm (well, for New England), the ice is almost all melted, and the mud has not yet become impossibly slick. We ran into a great number of dogs we know and an equally great number we never saw before. Linus was in heaven; Shwea was trying hard not to snarl (she knows it upsets me, though can think of no better response to an unapproved butt sniff).

Found myself in a conversation about our dogs' quirks with another person (if I were speaking to a dog about this, I hope I'd catch myself). We both agreed our dogs have their idiosyncrasies, then Linus gave me a look so as to say, "And you--you think you're a paragon of mental health? Hah!"

Well, he had a point, so I said something to that effect to the person, who didn't seem to get it.

Maybe I need to watch that dog communication thing, eh? In my defense, I do spend more time with the dogs than with any other living creature.

Yeah, I'll keep an eye on it....

Speaking of which, there's some women's basketball on the TV, so close I must.

Bloated and hungover

That, apparently, is how I regularly appeared on the job many years ago (the very early '90s), according to my friend and colleague Hilary.

Yup, she knew me when, and we're still friends. It's quite wonderful to have a friend long enough to see you through some major life changes. Though, I must admit, I sometimes forget my "bloated and hungover" days, so it's a shock when someone recalls them for me.

Guess I was due for a friendly reminder.

On other humbling fronts, Hilary and I had a lengthy discussion about (in no particular order): Weight Watchers, exercise (for Weight Watchers' points), crockpots, and retirement savings (or the lack thereof).

We were chatting along, when suddenly Hilary cried out: "Oh my God, we are so MIDDLE-AGED!"

Oh dear. So we are.

This isn't news, of course (accepting my middle-aged status has been an ongoing struggle), but I guess it was time for another dose of cruel, hard reality.

So, it's a day of recollection and reckoning. Woo.

Tomorrow, Linda and I get our haircuts (our hairs' cut?). Things are looking up!

Why civil unions don't cut it

I had a chat with a person of the straight male persuasion recently where it soon became clear that he had no idea what the fuss was about regarding gay marriage--he asked me, "Aren't civil unions good enough?"

Well, no, they're not--as long as we of the queer persuasion are still paying the same taxes as everyone else.

Not even close.

This was made crystal clear by a recent report funded by The National Gay and Lesbian Task Force Policy Institute, "Economic Benefits of Marriage: Under Federal and Connecticut Law," by Terence Dougherty (go to http://www.thetaskforce.org, head to the Resource Library, and click on Reports & Research for a free copy). It offered example after example of how gays and lesbians are shortchanged because they aren't allowed to marry in the eyes of the federal government.

While I had heard that there were over a thousand benefits to being married, I had no idea that these benefits added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars. The eye opener for me was a table tallying the tax and social security benefits a gay couple, Stephen and Andre, wouldn't get because they couldn't marry. Since I'm not tech-savvy enough to reproduce it here, allow me to offer the summary:

"In total, if Andre and Stephen continue to work until they reach retirement age in 2020, they can expect to have over $212,000 less than if they were able to legally marry under federal and Connecticut state law. If their hypothetical estate tax is included, that lifetime detriment increases to over $750,000."

Over $212,000?! Over $750,000??!!

And sadly, cool as they may be, marriages as offered by the state of Massachusetts do very little to make this better--most of the money lies in the federal domain: Social Security, estate taxes, and so forth.

So, now I'm really P.O.d about my tax burden this year--all this money going to the feds, and what do I get in return? Not just nothing--HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS LESS THAN NOTHING!!!!

AAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Mud (slinging) season

Just watched the PBS Buster the Bunny episode that caused the Regressive Right to throw a hissy, "It's Sugartime!"

Yes, there were two lesbian couples in the show, and yes, one of the daughters of one of the couples professed her love for her Mom and Step Mom, and yes, one of the lesbians even put her arm around her partner (for a photo), but they spent as much time on the family pets and livestock as on the moms--more, even. The focus of the show, as far as I could tell, was learning about Vermont in springtime, not homo parenting--in other words, one saw a lot about mud season, cows, maple syrup, and cheese, not much else.

I think I know the problem--those dykes were just too damn normal. And their kids, you couldn't tell them from the kids with two "regular" parents.

Must be confusing as hell for the homo-haters: "Why, they don't look depraved! And their kids look happy!!"

In other words: How are the homo-haters going to teach their kids that queers are abnormal and sick, when the lesbians on Buster look anything but?

Sigh.

Grateful student of The Comedy

Went to a women-of-color comedy show last night at UMASS, and it was one of the few times in my life I was grateful to be a pasty white person (only since it meant I would not be performing). The show was held in the Campus Center's auditorium, an enormous poured concrete room that evoked images of WWII bunkers (it looks like whoever designed the space had spent most of his---and I'd be shocked to learn it was a she--career designing fallout shelters). Worse, there were only about 20 people in the enormous gray room--and that includes the handful of comics who chose to hang out in the back.

And if the large, gaping space and the deafening silence that followed most comic's attempts weren't enough, the mic was screwed up--every so often, it sounded like a Slinky. To add insult to injury, the darn thing up and died--right in the middle of the last comic's set.

In a word: Brutal.

Despite all this, the show went on, and I thoroughly enjoyed (just about) every set. A few of the Asian comics relied on sexual stereotypes to an uncomfortable degree--to me (but then I'm Midwestern and Catholic/Presbyterian, so just about anything of a sexual nature makes me uncomfortable). It just seemed that they worked the "yellow fever" angle to excess (on the verge of sounding hack, if that's not too harsh a term). The most successful comics put themselves out there as individuals, not types--they acknowledged the prevailing views regarding their particular demographic, then proceeded to personalize, if not dismantle, these stereotypes with riffs on their own unique (and hilarious) life experiences.

Do wonder why UMASS had such a hard time getting crowds to this event, though--the comic running the show told me they'd packed the place in the past. The UMASS rep reported that the calendar was clear when she planned the event, but then student government debates had been scheduled at the last minute for last night--perhaps that was the cause.

Whatever the reason, it was a shame that more people didn't hear these comics--and I'm very glad I did.

That was a DAY!

Yesterday was a whirlwind of a day--what with the dog trailing and the vet driving and editing and proofing and tax retrieving and grocery shopping and car washing and "L Word" re-viewing and basketball watching and so on. Whew! The dog part of the day was definitely the most exhausting, by far.

Shwea did finally deliver a sample for the vet, bless her heart. She also delivered an Oscar-worthy performance outside of the vet's office. As soon as she jumped out of the car, she made a beeline for the woods. Then, when I grabbed her leash and started towards the building, she began her jump-into-crotch maneuver.

When she's really scared/desperate, Shwea leaps up and bumps her head against my privates as though she can somehow work her way into my body and away from harm. It's the most bizarre thing she does, and it makes getting across a parking lot a challenge--Linus's sudden need to mark every piece of shrubbery on the lot didn't help, either. (Why do vets even bother with shrubbery? They know that it's only going to become a target....don't they?)

Then, when we got into the building, Shwea began to shake. A full-body, stem-to-stern tremor. She's been doing this since we had her spade at six months. Even thought there's no way in hell we can put her through that twice, she's convinced no good comes from vet's offices, and acts accordingly. Linus, he just leaps up on the waiting room bench and looks out the window. It looks to me as though he's visualizing himself outside, marking more shrubs.

When it came time for shots, Linus was his usual "This isn't happening to me" self (well versed in denial, that one). Shwea, on the other hand, pulled out all the stops, bucking like a bronco to the point where they had to call in the office lady to help hold her on the exam table.

Oh, it was just awful--but I know it was absolutely necessary. Still, I felt I owed the gang a little more than the usual "LITE" biscuit for this one, so we stopped at McDonald's on the way home. I bought a plain cheeseburger, which I tore into bite-sized pieces and fed to them, thanking them for being good (well, at least not vicious) dogs.

Thereby (I pray) effectively sweeping any residual vet trauma from their minds. I'm lovin' it, indeed.

Poop pursuit

Spent the past 40 minutes or so tailing my dog Shwea, in the hopes that she would do what she usually does every time I take her out for a walk of such duration. (Am dragging both beasts into the vet this afternoon for their annual checkup, so need stool samples for them both.)

Of course, since I was avidly waiting for her to do her business, she did everything else--sniffed several stumps, chewed on branches, got her fur up over a scent that no one else could smell, and so on. Twice she squatted--but only to do Number One.

A wily beast, that Shwea. Linus, usually the "I'm not doing it just because you want me to" school, was quite obliging. So, I'll have to follow Shwea outside at lunch time, when we go out for our midday break. Here's hoping she delivers, for otherwise, I'll have to make a separate trip to the vet--to drop off doo.

Just seems wrong, somehow. And this whole "Poop Watch" job makes this dreary, drizzly Monday that much more special, don't you know.

On other fronts, I watched more women's basketball yesterday than is probably healthy--got to the point where I couldn't discern one team from another, nor did I really care. The only thing I do remember is Coach Dawn Staley (SP?) of Temple University getting a foul for foul language--she looked as P.O.'d as anyone I've ever seen on TV. That wasn't acting, folks, that was a genuinely furious female--and fierce, did I mention fierce? My, that was fun to watch! (Yes, I like the angry girls--don't ask me what that's about.)

Speaking of fun, last night's "The L Word" was a rip--Dana and Alice finally succumed to their mutual passion, and it was one of the hottest/most hilarious sex scenes I've seen in a while (the woman who plays Dana does physical comedy like nobody's business). And Camyrn Manheim has a cameo role that will ensure her a spot in Dyke Heaven. (If she's interested in such a spot, of course--who can tell these days, with these Hollywood types?) The only blight on the night was in the form of Jenny (don't know why that character bothers me so, but she does); they have cut her hair and dressed her as though she's some sort of lesbian Audrey Hepburn.

Good goddess--I didn't know Audrey Hepburn, but Jenny is NO Audrey Hepburn. Not even close.

Sigh.

Signs of a comic in trouble....

I have only been a performer in The Comedy for a brief while, but I have noticed that the expression "fudge packer" is not used by comics with successful material.

It's the phrase that signals desperation to yours truly. Once I get past the homophobia part, of course.

The term was used by a comic at a show I went to last night--as a member of the audience. What a nice change of pace! (If not as exciting.) The comic was bombing with his all-too-familiar rants about petty irritations and so forth (not that I don't know from petty; Lord knows I do), but since that wasn't working, he decided to whip out his offensive material. Did some riffs on gay men--with a lisp at one point--that ended with the phrase that signals a sinking comic ship. Yup, "fudge packer."
Did I mention her wore sunglasses? Yeah, that should have been a clue....

My friend Jennifer, on the other hand, did a good set that the folks really enjoyed--she has the sort of material that you can laugh at unashamedly. No bad Karma from her set, oh no. It was honest and real and--last but not least--funny.

Glad we went, even if Linda was ready to explode by the end (she doesn't enjoy The Comedy as much as I do--especially when the NCAA Women's tournament is on).

Plus, the guy in the sunglasses kept obscuring her view. Yup, a prince among men, that one.

That's enough out of me--gotta go paint (yes, it's one of those weekends).

Knickers in a knot (warning)

Just because I needed to think about something besides my job for a moment today, I decided to do a quick survey of Massachusetts towns and their fees for unlicensed dogs. Boy, was that a mistake.

I found that Northampton sees unlicensed dogs as some sort of furry revenue stream, for they have the highest fees in the land (well, the land I surveyed, anyway). As noted below, I am going to be hit up for $60 per pooch for not licensing my dogs last year, whereas if I lived in Amherst, I would pay a mere $30/dog; in Sunderland, $25/pooch; in Princeton, $25; and East Bridgewater, $25.

Worse, when I called the city clerk to ask with whom I can lodge a complaint regarding these fees, I was told: ""We don't make the law--the city council does. They decided this three years ago, and it's our job to enforce them." So, if I wanted to protest, to whom would I complain? "No one. There is no complaint process for dog licenses." I could write a letter to the city clerk, of course, but "that wouldn't do you any good."

What kind of Lilly-livered, bureaucratic hoo-hah is this?! My goddess, I feel my inner libertarian rising up--who knew I even had an inner libertarian?! This is horrifying!!!!

Of course, I could go to the city council and complain there, but the prospect of complaining about dog licenses when they'll probably be discussing whether to ask the government to pull our troops out of Iraq shames me. How petty can a girl get?

Pretty damn petty, apparently.

No, this is not a "I'm happy to be me" kind of day. Not that I have a lot of those, but this certainly is NOT one of those days.

What's with all the freakin' taxes?!

My goddess, now I owe a heavy debt to the dog licensing people. I completely spaced getting my dear dogs' licenses last year (I don't remember what was going on last spring, but it must have been distracting), so now, if I renew their licenses for this year, I have to pay a fine--$60 per pooch! Thank goddess we only have two.

Of course, I'm considering not renewing--go ahead, say it: "Bad citizen! Bad dog owner!"

I'll renew, don't worry. Haven't I made it clear that I am law-abiding to a ridiculous degree (except regarding renewing dog licenses, apparently)? And if anything ever happened and they tried to take my beasties away for being undocumented canines, I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

Odds are good Linda wouldn't be able to live with me, either.

Good grief--made the mistake of telling Linda about this, and she's suggesting all sorts of actions that are completely contrary to my character. Jesuit priest! You'd think she'd figure me out by now.

What a lovely way to start the day, eh?

Misunderstood and $120 poorer. Gotta love this living business!

What a difference a day makes....

Boy, did I get some bad news yesterday. Nothing life-threatening, but definitely something that's going to put a crimp in my style until the end of June: I owe taxes out the wahzoo.

Now, in 2003, I was able to put a large chunk of money into my retirement fund to avoid this fate, but in 2004 I put a large chunk of money down on a cottage, instead. As a result, I have no money to keep the Feds at bay.

And these are the same Feds who think people like me should be grateful we get to breathe the same air as "normal" folks, even while they're despoiling this same air and generally doing a reverse Robin Hood on our sorry selves. In other words: I not only have to come up with a lot of money, I have to come up with a lot of money for people who are out to get me (not that I feel singled out--they're out to get just about everybody who isn't rich, white, "Christian" and heterosexual).

I've been wrangling with a bit where I say, "Fine, you don't want me to get married and have the same protections as straight folks? Well, what you going to give me in return? I pay the same damn taxes as straight folks, so if I don't get the same goods, give me a deduction--that's right, a god-damned DYKE DEDUCTION."

No, it's not funny, which is why I'm still working on it. And it's not as if I'll ever live to see that day, either. I tell you, if I were given the choice between equal treatment for me and my gal and a tax deduction representing everything we don't get because we're dykesauruses, I'd be sorely tested today. I'd get over myself and choose equal treatment, but I'd waver.

But then, what the heck do I really need to buy? I've got more than enough stuff--just ask Linda.

Speaking of Linda, we went to the clinic yesterday to have her checked out, and have to return for yet another ultrasound in three months. The doctor seems to think what he sees is nothing to worry about, but then he keeps asking us back for another look--just to be safe. Is this a confusing state of affairs, or what? I'm trying not to worry about it, but I know it's in the back of my mind and likely Linda's, too. Here's hoping we show up in June and they finally say, "Oh, it's nothing. Go home and never darken our door again!" It could happen, couldn't it?

Realize we were such lesbians at the clinic (get your mind out of the gutter, folks): While we waited in the examining room for the doctor, we worked on the brackets for the upcoming NCAA women's basketball tournament (Linda's in a pool). Lesbians? Basketball?! Embrace the stereotype, say I!

Oh, happy day

Yesterday was a great day, after all, even if the car dealership called me to try to discuss my situation.

Happily, I was out with the dogs when the dealer called; he only left a message and his number. Did I call back? What--are you crazy?

I don't go looking for trouble, not anymore. No, that's not accurate--I never went looking for trouble, but did bump up against it a lot thanks to the drinking and sexual confusion and all.

I know me--I'd probably end up apologizing to the dealer, promising to write a glowing review.

Wuss, thy name is Ann Louise Podolske.

But yesterday was also very productive on the work front, and I gave a ride to radiation therapy to a dear woman, too. She likes to call out the names of streets and buildings as we drive past, "Hello, Academy of Music!" "Hello Windsor Terrace!" and so forth. Charming, that.

Speaking of charming (well, perhaps that's not the word), I got a hoot out of this blog entry by Jennifer. Anyone who has ever been on a desperate bathroom quest will identify (and having lived in New York City for a decade--five of those years as an active alcoholic--I've been on a million of 'em).

And though I've been on a hiatus of sorts where recovery meetings are concerned, I went to one of those church basements yesterday, too. And it actually brightened what was left of my day.

Good to know.

Getting things off my chest

My car dealer sent me a customer service questionnaire, and I guess I let them have it.

While taking my share of the blame, of course.

I did leave the dealership with mixed emotions--thrilled by the car, but with the nagging feeling I had just paid more than I should have for a car that didn't meet every need on my list.

What's missing, you may rightly ask, from a very powerful car with electronic everything, AWD, side curtain airbags, Sirius radio, heated seats, power sunroof, and a host of fabulous features too numerous to mention?

A roof rack, is all. And while one of the sales guys said I could get one from Yakima or Thule, they don't make them for Magnums yet. So, I feel a little misinformed.

And the financing wasn't ideal, but the finance guy said I would be able to refinance after three payments. We shall see.

I pointed this out to the dealer viz the survey, but concluded it was really my fault--caveat emptor and all that--but couldn't help concluding: "Wouldn't it be nice if one didn't have to approach a car purchase with the consumer equivalent of a chair and a whip?"

Sigh. I have serious shortcomings in the "chair" and "whip" categories, as I've already noted. The good news? Goddess willing, I won't have to deal with a car purchase for a very, very long time....

On other fronts, went over to "The L Word" Web site to see what the community is saying about the show, and was amazed at the level of discourse. These are my people? I don't think so!

But in the interest of compassion for my fellow human beings, I've decided they must be young--or at least that's what I'm hoping--for it's hard to imagine anyone with any real life experience coming to the conclusions found in the discussion forum. Unless they're still drinking/drugging/what-all--then, all bets are off. When you're shit-faced, experience can't teach you shit. (My, aren't I waxing eloquent today?)

Whew! Now I feel better. Time to go proof a 180-page mss on hiring lawyers--don't envy me my gala existence, please.

Too many comics spoil the show....

Went to an open mic run amok this weekend--turned into a 15 (or was it 16?) comic extravaganza, and I was on two comics from the end. The usually prime (but not when it's this late) closing spot was held by none other than my friend and driving enthusiast Jennifer, poor thing. She did great, but only because she's a professional (despite her protestations to the contrary) and could likely get the dead to sit up and take notice (though I'm not suggesting she try).

It was another night where the comic ratios were dangerously askew: I left home around 5:30 to pick up Jennifer and head south to Connecticut, but didn't get on stage until a little after 11 (or was it a lot after 11? Who can remember?). By the time I went up, what was left of the audience seemed just worn out--and I wasn't exactly feeling fresh as a flower, either. Didn't help that Connecticut is a state with a smoking ban, so the ladies' room had become the designated smoking spot. As a result, every time I went to the loo--or even stood by it--I got about a pack-and-a-half's worth of nicotine in my delicate, asthma-ridden bronchials.

Finally got home at 1:00 a.m., exhausted. Don't mind getting home spent after a good show, but this one didn't qualify. It was yet another night that made me wonder if I was cut out for The Comedy. Though, I shouldn't forget that a couple of comics told me they heard I just killed at a show a couple of weeks ago--that helps a little, even if it didn't help my set. Sigh.

On other fronts, learned today that my radio appearance on WMUA isn't coming to pass after all--the hosts decided to take the show in another direction, so Jerry and Cori and I traveled to Amherst to babble into microphones in a stifling hot room in the UMASS Campus Center basement for naught. What a rip!

Is it me, or does comedy entail a lot of WASTING TIME?

Do I have that much time to waste? Oh, who am I kidding? I have nothing better to do, and The Comedy can be a lot of fun (even if this weekend wasn't).

Well, that's not entirely true. It was fun driving to and from North Haven in my new car--it's a supremely road-worthy vehicle, it is. Just ask Jennifer.

Nice night in Greenfield

Our show at the lovely Cafe Koko in Greenfield was successful, albeit on a limited scale. Didn't make tons of money, but we did make the few people who showed up for comedy laugh, and that's always a good thing (plus, the owner asked us to come back on a Friday night when we will likely draw larger crowds--always a good sign).

On other fronts, my maiden highway voyage in the new Magnum was very smooth sailing, though I had a rather eerie experience on the way there. A pickup truck rode alongside me for an uncomfortably long time, and I have no idea why. Was the person checking the car out, or was it some sort of challenge?

I dunno. Perhaps it was just another driver lost in a cell phone conversation, but suffice to say, he/she weirded me out a bit.

While I wondered if I "wimped out" by buying the SXT model instead of the RT with the HEMI, I think last night's drive proved I have more than enough power for this lifetime. This puppy moves fast enough, thank you very much. The RT would spell "regular (speeding)tickets," of that I'm certain.

That new car happiness is upon me

Am picking up my new car today, and am silly happy about it all, with the exception of "what ifs" as to what better deal I might have wrought had I been more wily.

Well, it's about time I faced facts on this front: I'm not now, nor have I ever been, wily. Or a hard bargainer. Even a tough customer, for that matter.

Me, I'm a wuss. God put me here to pay retail--someone has to do it. I keep the engine of the economy running smoothly, with my timidity and inability to bargain. Happily, I make enough money so that this is not a problem.

However, I also paid retail in Morocco (where they bargain over tomatoes, for pity's sake), when I didn't have the proverbial pot to do my bidness in.... But bad negotiating skills were the least of my worries back in those bad old days.

Sigh.

So, once I quit wondering "what if," I will be able to enjoy my car completely. Please goddess, let it be soon.

The car will be mine this afternoon, so I hope to get the self-recrimination out of my system by then.

It's a beautiful day, if silly cold. Yup, nice day for a drive.....

Oh, to heck with it....

The weather got to me. I snapped. I couldn't take it any more.

I bought a car today. I pick it up tomorrow.

I'm in a wee bit of shock.

More to come. Later.

Tax(ing) season

I am thisclose to finishing my tax prep for the year, and that's a wonderful thing. There are few things I find more enervating than tallying up long rows of numbers on my old-fashioned calculator with the curly, yellowing tape (I don't have many occasions to tally long rows of numbers, I'm pleased to report). Am getting this done earlier this year than last, largely because I want to know what my tax debt/rebate scenario is, so I can forge ahead on the car front or cool my car-coveting jets.

Saw the Pacifica, a car my brother wants me to look at, in a parking lot this weekend--it's HUGE. Dunno if I see myself in anything that enormous, but I probably should check it out for the sake of comparison.

Am also thinking about looking at the Toyota Matrix, though I'm pretty sure it doesn't have the zip or features of the car that has won my heart, the Magnum RT. But it would get much better mileage and wouldn't be such an obvious midlife crisis car. We shall see....

Last night's "L Word" was the occasional hoot, though as usual, entirely too much time was spent on Jenny the Annoying. Linda's theory is that her story is based on that of one of the show's creators, hence the need to drag her into every episode. What a bore! And if Alice and Dana don't get together soon, I'm going to start having "Claire of the Moon" flashbacks. (The writers are dragging their hookup out beyond all reason, for those lucky souls unfamiliar with the torture that was COTM.)

Mayhaps the writers are setting us up for a lesbian version of the wedding scene in "The Graduate." Just a hunch, but that's today's theory.

Lastly, I think I'm going to take a break from the nice woman in town I see every other Wednesday. Realized we meet this week, and was bored at the prospect ("What are we going to talk about?!"). Hope I'm not in denial about something major (always a possibility with this recovering alcoholic/Catholic gal), but I think it's a good time for a breather. We shall see.....

Comic ratios....

Am happy to report I and my comic peeps each had a nice seven minutes at Jitters last night--only thing, talking about it with my friend and fellow comic Holly about it on the way home afterwards, we realized she spent about seven hours of her life for her seven minutes, me a little less.

Are we desperate, or dedicated? That is today's question.

Regardless, I believe it was worthwhile, if only to see my friend Jennifer's heroic attempts at shaking the audience out of their lethargy. They were dead, for all intents and purposes, but she brought them back to life as only she can, using a combination of threats, calisthenics, and more.

A comic miracle.

As for today, I have more evidence that my night owl days are far behind me. It took a lot of positive self-talk for me to get my carcass out of bed this morning at 7:00 a.m. to feed the beasts.

They don't factor in late nights when deciding when feeding time should be. As far as I can tell, feeding time is an inflexible concept in both the canine and feline cranium. And besides, once Linus starts whining, I am powerless. He has a hold on me, that dog.

Now I must try to finish compiling my taxes. Try very hard not to envy me my day; it's unseemly....

Rubbing noses.....

My dear brother, who is older by 12 years, called me the day before yesterday to gloat. He does this every year around this time, for this is when he and my sister-in-law (who's not a gloater) go to Mexico for their winter holiday.

True, he calls me other times, but I know that when the phone is ringing in early March odds are good it's him on the line, Mr. I'm-going-on-holiday-and-you're-not.

One would think at 58 he would be beyond this sort of behavior, but I think older brothers are hardwired to tweak and taunt their younger sisters, and I can accept that.

Particularly since we were both plagued by our older sister growing up, and still are, on rare (thank God) occasion. He used to protect me from her as best he could back in the day, and for that, he has my eternal gratitude and permission for an annual gloat.

At the very least.

But if he picks up a stomach bug of some sort, I don't think I'll be able to resist rubbing his nose in it, so to speak.

I am a kid sister, after all, and I've got some hardwiring of my own.

And while we're on the subject of family, today is my mother's birthday--had she not been done in by The Cancer, she would have turned 85 today. Happy birthday, Mom, wherever you are!

Goddess bless my day job

Had a very rocky night at the open mic last night, which threw me for an unusual loop (maybe not that unusual--woke up thinking, "Maybe The Comedy isn't for me." Sadly, I've done that before).

Anyway, my CSI (comic shitstorm investigation) reveals a number of factors that led to my floundering on stage like a bass out of water: (1) I went first, which I never do; (2) I had what felt like a sugar rush while on stage--didn't have any sugar before I went up, but did have a lot of carbohydrates, which apparently was not a good thing, particularly since I exercised about an hour before the show; (3) the sound echoed, and trying to be the "nothing-bothers-me" professional, I didn't mention it (even though it was freaking me out), and (4) I shot myself in the foot in the first two seconds responding to something the host extraordinnaire, my friend Jennifer, said about our successful show in Boston (well, Somerville).

It was a humbling experience, and I am trying not to read COMIC DOOM into what happened. It was a reminder that I am still relatively new at this, and as with anybody learning anything, sometimes lessons hurt a little. Or a lot.

What I think I've learned: While I can't control when I go on, I can control what I eat beforehand (I seem to do best on a lot of protein, such as a bacon cheeseburger, lucky me). Plus, I should note if anything seems awry--the mic, the sound, whatever--there are technicians around to attend to such matters (no need to gut it out, for heaven's sake--it's comedy, not the Marines!) And I gotta watch the ad libs--if I know one thing about myself, I am not a "quick on my feet" kinda gal. Sigh.

Happily, I have another performance tomorrow night, so I can put this knowledge to work.

Speaking of which, I should get to it--right now, I think my financial future is tied to my editing, not comedy, skills.

One thing: I realized after the show that I forgot a newish bit I was going to try entirely. The subject? The end of my youth; i.e., signs of aging. (Like forgetting an entire bit. Jesuit Priest!)

Good thing I promised....

Oh my, but that Magnum RT with AWD and a HEMI (whatever that is) is beyond a thrill--it's a midlife crisis waiting to happen, folks, and I may have to succumb.

But not today.

Am wondering how soon I could pay off the Cruiser, though.....

Gotta be smart, gotta be cool....

Well, I finally disclosed my car mania to Linda last night, and she (bless her) responded with a big dose of common sense. Have promised not to buy a new car until I pay my current one off (in August), which is really the only sensible thing to do. So, now I am only going to test drive at this point. Because I need to see how my prospects handle snow, and won't be able to do that in August. REALLY AND TRULY.

Plus, I understand that December is the best time to buy a car, so that is my plan.

Don't know if I'll be able to hold off until then, but I thought it might help to put this plan out here, where I might have witnesses (though, truth be told, I don't know if anyone is reading this blog except for me).

Last night's radio interview went well, I think--don't know how I feel about compressing my set into sound bites, but I think I managed to get a couple good shots off (won't really know until it hits the airwaves on the 25th).

Tonight, however, is Jennifer Myszkowski's fabulous open mic at PACE, so that's a more immediate concern. Am still trying to figure out what to do with the legislator up in Maine who is trying to pass a bill banning the abortion of fetuses because they're gay (not that we have the technology to determine this yet, but that's not really the issue here). Another regressive man with a plan--trying to hoodwink liberals into backing an abortion ban with the gay card. What hubris! Especially since the guy's on record as being against queer marriage ("special rights") and the like.

Guess we're all warm and cuddly until we come out--of the womb!

What a world, what a world....

Obsession

There was a time when I thought I wasn't interested in cars, but apparently that time is past. Lost my cranium over the PT Cruiser about four years ago, and now, realizing I need something more snow-worthy, I am looking for the "best" AWD for me. It's getting out of hand--I almost have as much paper piled up as when I bought my PC and laptop (and I need those to earn my living, for heaven's sake!).

The one good thing is I have learned that my credit score is very healthy (which I assumed, but it's always good to know for sure). Also, I have been researching the "how to buy a car" sites, and they have me so anxiety-ridden about the many ways that car dealers part the unsuspecting from their money I am afraid to drive past a dealership without ensuring my wallet is in a secure location. I do have an appointment to test drive a couple of cars tomorrow, but it's in a far-away dealership that I can run screaming out of if necessary--and no one I know will witness it.

That's my Plan B, especially if the sales rep somehow sits me down somewhere but inside a car and starts spouting arcane numbers and inflated percentages and gives me a trade-in value that would make my cat bark and an interest rate more suited to recent high school graduates all the rest of the tricks o' this trade.

Almost wish I liked Saturns. Their dealers don't dicker, they don't B.S., they just sell what they've got at the price listed, take it or leave it.

Oh well, Perhaps I'll have such a terrible time of it I'll keep the ol' Cruiser for a while longer and bum Linda's Forester when necessary. That wouldn't be a bad thing, not at all. Of course, I know myself well enough to know that that's not the most likely scenario. I have a tremendous tolerance for being snowed/lied to/taken advantage of, thanks to being raised Catholic and the youngest (by a landside) in my family.

We shall see....

Let it snow....

Really, what are my options here? Have cleared the driveway and the massive plow-provided mogul at its end so Linda has no trouble getting to work, but it appears the snow is not done. Not by a long shot.

Clearing snow is good exercise, right? (That's what I'm telling myself, though I have a vague recollection about shoveling being bad for one's heart. Or was that just something my dad seized upon to avoid yet another household chore? He wasn't exactly Mr. Handyman, let's just say that.)

This week has seen some success, though: Finally got my courage up and made an appointment for the colonoscopy my doctor suggested. Won't be going until the first week of April, which is nice and far away. Also paid all of my bills (including an ouch of a credit card bill thanks to my new PC and laptop) and then all of our household bills (my turn). That always gives me an unreasonable feeling of accomplishment. Even celebrated by picking up pizza after I dropped our bills in the mail.

It's important to celebrate the little things, say I (though Linda, who has recently begun Weight Watchers, would probably prefer I celebrate some other way. Should work on that, for the sake of family harmony.)

Realized I missed the latest anniversary of my mother's death, which I hope is a sign of something healthy. On the 27th, it was three years since I called her nursing home from a hotel lobby in NYC for an update on her condition and was put on hold for a very, very long time. "You tell her." "No, you're the head nurse, you tell her." At least that's what I imagined was going on, for when someone finally came on the line and told me, I already knew.

If one has to sob in a hotel lobby, New York is the place--nobody said a word. And if you need to walk down the street crying, New York is a good place, too. When hit in the head with a 2 x 4 of grief, I appreciate being left alone. At least for a little while.