My “commonlaw husband” (see Keith Hill entries) has not called back since our conversation Saturday afternoon, so I think he’s moved on. Onward and upward, white trash. You keep on truckin’, looking for that poor, unlucky, cursed-by-God girl you call your commonlaw wife. It’s just so…common. I actually thought about calling the other women in this city who share a first and last name with me to warn them of the impending phone doom headed their way but figured, eh, whatever. What’s funny about this situation is the close look I was taking at getting rid of the home phone. The person-to-person calls were upping the ante for me to cut the cord, but then my cellphone didn’t work for two days over the weekend. The land line always works. Even if the person on the other end is a human irritant, causing inflammation of the brain, I like having a phone that works all the time.
I’ve mentioned an “experimental” play I was commissioned to write a few weeks ago. My first paying gig as a playwright and all that. Well, the presentation of that work-in-progress is Monday night and guess what – I haven’t written the mofo. I have about half of it sketched out on paper, and the entire thing is living in my brain, so I think I’ll be okay. But still. Even though this little project was a last minute sort of thing a few weeks ago when I was approached about it, I still had ample time to make it happen without there being much drama surrounding it. But that would be too easy. The procrastination of some members of my family is legend, and I shan’t name names, but this is really pushing the limit because whatever I produce will be presented in front of real, live human beings expecting to be at least somewhat entertained. This isn’t some pissy term paper that only one disgruntled grad student will have to read. This is public, folks. Live by the sword (of procrastination) die by the sword (of public humiliation). I guess the up side is, if I pull this off, I’ll feel badass. If not, I’ll feel assbad. Six of one.