(sorry for the lack of narrative in this post–it’s a good reflection of the inside of my brain right now)

The theme song sound for 60 Minutes always bums me out. For decades now, that ticking clock has signaled the end of the weekend. Doesn’t matter if I hear it on a Wednesday afternoon or a Friday night. It’s Pavlovian.

There’s a certain someone from a far away place who is interested in being my pen pal. Here, check out the email I just received:

Hello! What is your name? At supervision of your structure I very much have become interested in you. My name is Anna. If you want with me to communicate then write to me. If you write to me do not forget to specify yours e-mail of the address that I could answer to you.

Quit checking out my structure, “Anna.”

In May, I’ll be able to check another state off my list when I spend a week and a half in Omaha for the Great Plains Theatre Conference. The Singularity will receive a reading and talkback, and I’ll get to spend some time just being a playwright around other people who are doing the same (many of whom probably get to just be a playwright more often than I).

monstrous breasts
Said by me in my kitchen last week, “Wow, look at the size of these breasts. All three of them are HUGE.” James didn’t know what to say as I jiggled them in his face.

The question I have is: What the fuck are they feeding these chickens? Has anyone else noticed how large chicken breasts have been lately? This is across brands, from organic to extra-pesticidey. I’m used to getting packages with four “regular” size breasts–solid B or C cup–but lately I’ve been getting more like two or three DDs. Unless these chickens are also working their legs, I’m not sure how they have the strength to carry their upper bodies around all day.


Monday dump

some of the ingredients for last night’s stir fry – it was so colorful, I had to stop and take a picture – now my phone smells like garlic
  • When we go to California on vacation, one of the ways we offset being in an expensive part of the country is by preparing some of our meals instead of eating out the whole time. We always go to Trader Joe’s to get inexpensive food and–more importantly–inexpensive wine. I’m excited that TJ is opening stores in Texas. The first Houston-area store opened in the Woodlands last month, and two more (actually in Houston) will open before the end of the year. We went to the Woodlands location this weekend and weren’t disappointed. In fact, for the hour or so we spent in the store, I felt like we were on vacation. Then we walked outside, and I remembered where I was.
  • I follow a lot of tiny house blogs. You often see the same houses (literally the same photos) over and over, from blog to blog. Which is fine. What’s not fine is that one blog, Tiny House Swoon, has decided to charge 49 cents for you to view their posts. Now, if these folks were searching out the houses and taking the photos themselves, no problem. But they’re just posting things they’re finding on the internet. Needless to say, I unsubscribed.
  • While showering this morning I was thinking that if I were to open an Italian restaurant, I’d call it Manipesto. (some people sing in the shower, some people come up with stupid names for shit) Figured I wasn’t the first person to put that word together, and google confirmed it.
  • A short play I wrote a few years ago–Militia Slumber Party, or Embracing the New World Order–will be produced by Revolution Theatre Company in the Abbie Hoffman Died for Our Sins Festival next month. Revolution Theatre is an awesome repeat customer–this is the third time they’ve produced my work for this festival. If you’re in Chicago, you should check it out. The festival goes for 72 hours straight. I’ve always wondered what kind of stuff is happening in those overnight slots. Because the audience is bound to be drunk. Or over-caffeinated.
  • Got up to pee in the middle of the night. (note to self: quit drinking 20 ounces of water before going to bed) Guess I was half-asleep (and hunched over) because I ran face-first into the wall. Hoping this isn’t emblematic of the kind of week that’s ahead.

cunning folk

Wanted to knock out a quick post before my friend Lisa comes over for dinner. She’s in town from New Haven, which always makes me think of witches. I guess the “haven” part gets transmogrified in my brain to coven or something. It also seems like a place where Stephen King would set a story about a professor who finds a severed head in his bathroom cabinet that helps him write his lectures. Until it eats his face in his sleep. (Be back momentarily…going to google. Witches, not Stephen King.)

Actually, there were witches hanged and otherwise dispatched in New Haven. So maybe some dim, distant memory from high school history still resides in a part of my brain that the wine hasn’t gotten to yet. While off on a tangent reading about witches, I ran across a wiki page for cunning folk, men or women who practice the magic arts. Though I don’t truck with magic, I would sort of like to be known as a cunning folk. Just make sure you spell it right.

I’m always trolling websites about small houses, living off the grid, etc.. Today, thanks to my friend Reddit, I found this great (and exhaustive) collection of photos chronicling a couple’s redo of a small camper. As I looked at their smiling faces, all I could think about was what those photos would look like if James and I were doing that project. We tend to have…different approaches to getting shit done, so it’s doubtful that we would be as merry as these folks (who, I realize, might have used their editorial discretion when choosing photos). It would be more like, you’d see one of us working alone while the other was kicking something in the background, obviously yelling profanities. But, hey, we always end up getting it done.

I’m out. Lisa’s here, and it’s sort of rude to be typing when I should be making dinner.