Crash and Burn

Today we had a special day-long rehearsal for the final concert of our season. The rehearsal was optional, and I'd say that about half of the guys who will be singing this final concert of the season were there. RP was there and he spent the entire day flirting with some insipid little twink. (I'm really not bitter.) But the crushing realization that I'm ant poop residue to THE ONLY MAN I'LL EVER LOVE has got me a little down.

Look, what fun is an adolescent crush if you can't indulge in a little hyperbole every now and then?

But, it's time to move on. How many times have I typed that?

The Best-Laid Plans...

So, this morning I haul my gelatinous ass out of bed to trudge (in the rain!) to the gym before work only to discover that it is closed for the next three days. Work and school leave room for little else. Combine this with a mild bout of flu that's been wafting through the office, and I've been virtually worthless the past week.

And at present work and school are competing for the spotlight in my life right now. This morning I have to have a difficult conversation with a senior manager and tell her she needs to step up to the plate...or not. And if she decides not, then she can expect to play a significantly diminished role in the future of the company. I've already had this conversation with my boss -- MY BOSS, for God's sake! The good news is that it was received in the spirit in which it was intended and he seems to be stepping up. Which should mean his employment is saved, but I'm smelling a demotion in the works. Then last night, I spent an hour with the CEO telling him that he needs to back off a bit. He challenged me, but I got him to concede some major points. But the major conversation I have to have is with a senior manager and tell him that he just can't do what he wants. I've been putting that one off, but the day of reckoning has arrived.

Example: The senior manager (SM) came into my office one day last week at 9:45 to tell me that he had a candidate for a job (that it turns out isn't even in his department) and that he wanted me to spend some time with him at 10:30. There was absolutely no discussion about my availability, but being the good HR person that I am, I shifted things around. At 10:30, said candidate arrived with resume in hand. I had exactly 16 minutes with this candidate -- just time enough to tentatively identify areas of performance that needed development -- when said SM barges into my office, RIPS THE RESUME FROM MY HANDS, and says that the CEO is available and said canidate was going to meet him. That was just the topper to a string of similar events.

The challenge for me in that meeting is to not go all ape-shit diva.

I love my job.

But a pre-work workout would have helped so much.

...and now to sleep...

Just a few quick lines before I go to bed. The schedule these days is quite tight. These next three weeks will be nothing but work, school, work, school. Discipline, never my strong suit, will be the only thing that gets me through.

No fully-developed profound thoughts of late. In general, life is good. But when I get a little overwhelmed, I allow myself to slip into fantasy thoughts of RP. The truth of it is that RP doesn't really exist. He's almost completely a creation of my imagination with a face I've borrowed from reality. Yesterday a friend asked if I'd ever talk to the real RP. I said no, probably not. The fantasy would then be spoiled, no matter how terrific the real RP is. Best to leave this particular fantasy alone.

Ah, but how sweet it would be if RP could be real. In my madder moments I wonder if it might be worth the gamble. And at times when I'm stressed and under the gun, that's when I'm most likely to do something stupid.

I wonder if every person is allotted a number of truly stupid moves before he's granted complete bliss. If that's the case, trying to run from them is really the most stupid thing of all. Happiness will always be five thousand stupid moves away, and by not taking a risk you may prevent yourself five thousand awkward moments, but you virtually guarantee yourself being isolated from happiness.

Something to think about, I suppose. And if and when I'm ready to lose RP, I might take that risk. But for now, I'm enjoying slipping to the fantasy world too much.

More Lucid Post

My last post is the best example of why one must never post to one's blog when exhausted. While still completely true, it's not my most elegant post. I'm sure my puppy-love crush will pass and I'll be feeling like my old self in no time.

Now, to concentrate on the very real things in my life that matter.

Work

It continues apace with changes galore. This week I'm hosting the "Bring Your Brat to Work Day." I'm doing everything I can think of to avoid providing free day care for a dozen snot-nosed, over-privileged tykes. The best I can think of is a craft exercise in the morning, shipping the kids off to lunch with the folks, then a movie and ice cream in the afternoon. I'm bone weary just thinking about it.

School

My fiction writing class is a little disappointing. There is an endless amount of reading, and then writing summaries of the reading, with only one actual story being composed for the class. I have four little responses to compose, and about a half dozen short stories to read by Tuesday. I also should probably see if I can get my story started.

I've looked over my class options for the summer and next fall, and I'm not particularly happy. I have to take a class from the head of the department, the sexist, pompous prig I vowed I'd never take a class from. I intend...no VOW to sit in the back of the class and keep my mouth shut.

The Chorus

Next week we start rehearsing for the next concert. It's a short prep period, and we're only doing half the concert, with the other half being taken over by a chorus from Indianapolis. I'm really going to miss the chorus when it breaks for the summer.

Now, my biggest concern is that RP will decide he needs to take a break from the chorus and I won't see him again until September. Ah, RP, RP!

Love Hurts

Just home from the show, and it went as well as expected. There is just nothing like standing in front of a thousand cheering people.

But now a whole week without seeing RP. I think he knows I have a crush on him because during the show there is a place where he should make eye contact with me -- there is absolutely no where else to look, I'm standing right in front of him -- and he looks over my shoulder. In fact, this happens frequently off stage too. And other times, when he's passing by he'll wave or smile and say hi. When it's safe because he's not stopping or there are people around.

God, I'm such a little girl. I've been expecting this crush to pass, but it just keeps getting worse. I fear the only way to end it is to completely humiliate myself and confess my feelings.

Places, Please.

The Ten Commandments, The Musical opened last night to a wildly appreciative audience. But all of the CGMC shows receive wildly appreciative audiences. Tonight's show will be absolutely insane.

But I think I'm getting too old for all of this. I took off from work yesterday because the previous two nights took me away from my homework, so I had much to catch up on. I hate taking a day off work to stay home and work.

There are probably 120 people in the chorus for this performance, which probably means 140 costumes. Since I play the 37th Egyptian from the left, my costume has received very little attention. In fact, it is a strip of sheet, probably half of queen size top sheet, which I gingerly pin around myself strategically, and a yard and a half of faux tiger fur, cut perfectly square so it can be returned to the fabric store, that I have to "drape interestingly" around my shoulders. Oh, and I was given fifty inches of gold rope. The costume, I believe, is meant to be a constantly evolving living fashion sculture, but I feel like I'm playing dress up.

In my younger days I'd have spent hours bitching about this. Now, it's just funny. I am so not the point of this whole show. I'm there to have a good time and support those who are really doing all the work. My counterpart in the show is a great guy, and we keep each other entertained during all the madness.

The dressing rooms for this theatre might be designed for fifty. I have officially relocated to the hallway behind the trash can, after being displaced by a bevy of Hebrews who needed the mirror to artfully smear mud on their faces. I draw the Egyptian kohl around my eyes basically from memory. Thankfully in the finale I wear a choir robe, so I can change before the hoardes hit the dressing room, slip the electric blue schmatta on, take my bow, and then dash to safety somewhere.

Pity Blech

The time has come to make even more changes in my personal life. In a recent post on a blog I read regularly, the writer commented on holding onto relationships long past their expiration dates. I, too, am guilty of that. No matter how many times you shake the carton, the milk stays sour. I tend to put way too much significance on even the most casual relationship, as if the person standing before me is the last person on the face of the earth. With my newfound selectivity, however, I'm able to release relationships even before they begin.

I no longer feel the need to latch on to someone just because they tell me they're worthy of my time. I make that decision, and I don't always agree with the prevailing opinion.

A typical example:

There's a woman at work who prides herself on being a "good judge of character." I'm a sucker for these self-proclaimed judges. If someone tells me something with authority, I eat it up! In this case, she comes just short of claiming psychic ability. She's very magnetic, almost always commanding attention when she walks into a room. Unofficially, if you don't have her seal of approval, you're dead meat in the office.

I've included her in a couple of my interview teams. Yet, when it comes to recruiting for her department, she hires people that "feel right." Then she comes to me and tells me that she's sorry she's upset my "process." The quotes hang in the air every time she says it. In the past I would have busted my butt trying to get her approval. In fact, I've had to stop myself trying to get it. Instead of trying to redefine myself in her world, I'm interpretting her into mine, and I don't like the translation. The stench of condescension that rolls off her is stifling. Further, she had the audacity to invite me to her home for Easter dinner -- so I wouldn't be alone on the holiday.

Of course, I smiled and told her how sweet she was to think of me -- both times she extended the invitation. I've done that before. But this time I honestly don't feel like I'm missing a thing. I cooked a turkey at home, and am quite happy with it. I'm leaving for church in a few minutes, and I'll spend the afternoon rehearsing for the upcoming concert. Exactly how I want to spend my holiday.

Because I'm single, I frequently get offers to spend holidays with people who "don't want me to be alone on the holiday." These invitations make me insane. Invite me because you want to spend time with me, not because you're doing your Christian duty by taking in those less fortunate. I've spent years swallowing the message that I'm lucky that certain people have included me in their lives. I'm so gullable, I believe almost anything anyone tells me. It rarely occurs to me that someone would have an agenda that would include using me to make themselves feel important. So if you tell me I'm lucky to know you, then I probably am. But recently I've come to consider the reverse. You are lucky to know me.

And in my considered opinion, more often than not you are.

The truth is, I like being alone on the holidays. I get to do exactly what I want, however I want to do it. Sure, I'd enjoy being with friends, but only with friends who are choosing to spend time with me because they're spending time with me, not out of a sense of pity.

And it's this sense of pity that I've come to dispise. It says I'm less than. There is nothing about me that merits pity, so keep it to yourself.

Agony

Today was the kind of day I dread. I have had the same five letters sitting on my desk waiting to go out for the past three weeks, and today I decided they would go out or I would die in the attempt. The problem is, and has been, that everybody and his arthritic aunt wants to have his say on what should be in these letters. Three of the five have been completed three separate times, with signatures, only to be pulled and revised. Finally, after about four hours of the nonsense I got the same three approved for the fourth time. One of them I printed up and got into the mail, only to come back to my desk to discover that I'd left out the signature page.

One of the letters is complete, with signature, but is on hold for sending.

Another letter is complete and waiting for a signature, and the remaining two are still in the steep revision stage. These five documents took up my entire day. Meanwhile I had a candidate come in for an interview, only to be told that she'd have to come back tomorrow because one of the VP's couldn't see her today.

It's all I can do not to scream.

I've Got a Crush on You, Sweetie Pie...

I'm a silly little girl.

Tonight at chorus rehearsal RP waved at me, and for a few brief minutes we were within three feet of one another on stage. I was in heaven. But even better, at the last rehearsal he sat in the chair where my coat was draped and he...TOUCHED it.

I'll never wash that coat again for as long as I live!

Oh, the fantasy of it all is fun, but I'm not going to go down that road. The reality of it is that he's nice and sweet to everybody and doesn't show me any particular attention. Last week we were both at the gym at the same time and didn't even speak. It's all a delicious little game I play with myself in my head.

But I haven't stopped smiling in the last hour.

Gender Identity Crisis

This week I hired a male receptionist and you'd have thought I'd resurrected Sodom and Gomorah.

My new job is for a company that is predominantely male focused. Better than 90 percent of our clients are men, and the old-guard management team believes that these clients would only be comfortable being greeted by a woman receptionist. One of the partners actually told me he wanted me to hire a model. Have you ever hired a receptionist? Do you know the kind of person who works for $12 an hour? It isn't Heidi Klum. The kid we hired is a struggling actor. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's clean, competent and conscious. At that salary level you really can't ask for more.

But the temper tantrums from the middle managers, complete with electronic snide comments have just begun. The first hit my e-mail box just before I left work this afternoon. The first temper tantrum, complete with stomping off and slamming doors, happened yesterday. This morning I went in and spoke to the new CEO. He told me to ignore them. He didn't come right out and say that these little babies were breathing their last company air, but he that was the message. He gave me a glimpse of his plans and told me to "gird" myself for the fall out.

Before our conversation, I was prepared to resign. Of course, behind all of this is some archaic homophobia. Who knows what the new receptionist does in the wee hours of the morning? And who cares, but I wrote the job description, and there was nothing in there about performing sexual favors.

As a rule, I hate seeing employees being fired, but when that doo doo hits the fan, I'm going to be front row, center to see the splat.

Let There Be Light

The job progresses. I'm no longer a temp, having been absorbed into the company last Monday. I've hired one employee and been through the ringer hiring a second, but the hiring manager owes me a decision on Monday, so that will be finished.

There is a lot of work to be done, but I like the job. I struggle not to make this blog all work all the time. I've gotten sucked into jobs that have taken over my life, and this job could do that. But school and the chorus should help to keep me grounded. And the condo.

Yesterday I installed a new chandelier in my dining room. I have to take it out and do it over. It's adjustable, but the cable inside the post is too big and inflexible, so I have to take the whole thing apart and cut the cable down and reinstall it. Right now, when you sit at the table, the lights are at eye level. But the good news is that I installed the thing and lived to tell the tale!

As a kid growing up, my father feared for my abilities. We had a gas stove and I was forbidden to try to light the oven for fear I'd blow the house up. To this day I break out in a cold sweat if I have to manually light my oven. I think I mowed the lawn twice, and again was forbidden to ever touch the mower because I'd cut off my feet. I was a mess during driver's ed because I just knew I'd wrap the car around a tree. My instructor actually told me that in the sixteen years of teaching, I was his worst student. I've never owned a car. In college, I nearly failed my scene design class because I was afraid of the power tools.

The irony in all of this is that after I'd grown up and moved away, my father actually did saw his thumb off with a table saw and nearly died.

But when I flipped the switch and the single test bulb in the chandelier lit -- and there was no fire -- I knew I was a big boy!

Everything's Coming Up Moses!

The Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus presents The Ten Commandments: The Musical!

Come for the commandments—stay for the plagues! We’ve taken the story of Moses, thrown in some Monty Python, added a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan, wrapped it in the pageantry of Les Misérables and created an original musical you’re going to love for 40 years.

And it has something for everyone: high drama (it’s quite faithful to the stories in Exodus), clever writing, half-naked men and songs with titles like “A Bad Day to be the First Born.”

See my immortal portrayal of thirty-seventh Egyptian from the left!

We’ve pulled out all the stops to promote this show (look for our ads on the buses that go through Boystown!) so you’ll want to get your tickets early. They went on sale this week—visit The Chicago Gay Men's Chorus for more info and a direct link to the Ticketmaster site.

Hope to see you there!
Performances: Friday, April 21, 8:00 pm Saturday, April 22, 5:00 pm (your best bet for great seats!) Saturday, April 22, 8:30 pm The Athenaeum Theatre, 2936 N. Southport

Tickets are available here: The Chicago Gay Men's Chorus 312-902-1500 in person at the Athenaeum Theater Box Office: 773-935-6860

Brokeback Backlash

It's been a while since I've written, and a vertible ballet of topics is prancing in my head: gender in the workplace, the decline of the American work ethic, the decline of my GPA, the first blush of spring... the list is nearly endless. But today, I've decided to comment on the alleged Brokeback Backlash.

Yes, I dutifully watched the Oscars. While I've not seen it, I have a hard time believing Reese Witherspoon turned in a better performance than Felicity Huffman -- a performance I did see -- but, sadly, I believe that the best actress category really comes down to a rating of the female most likely to get a boner from a fifteen year old boy. On very rare exceptions has this criteria been broken. I think the last one was Susan Sarandon -- and not because the woman isn't gorgeous, but because she played a nun.

However, I did see both Crash and Brokeback Mountain, and I have to agree with the academy's decision on this one. First, and foremost, Crash is a superior film. Even the supporting characters are vividly drawn. The leading characters have dynamic and unexpected archs. The audience takes a journey with that film that extends past the rolling of the final credits.

Brokeback Mountain is an exquisitely filmed work. The cinematography is breathtaking. While Crash can receive a satisfactory viewing in a video presentation, Brokeback will not. But more importantly, the story of Brokeback Mountain is trite by almost any standard. Forbidden love is a very old theme, and gay forbidden love is not new to Hollywood. The lovers are misunderstood and miserable and one of them ends up dead. Seen it all before. And, frankly, the performances are undergraduate-earnest at best.

Still, Brokeback is an important film for the gay community. Homosexuality is still the love that dare not speak its name and anything that raises the topic for discussion, no matter how crudely, should be commended.

In my own experience, the majority of my personal friends are straight. I go to see a lot of movies with them. Whenever the topic of movie selection comes up and Brokeback is suggested, almost to the person, the suggestion is discarded in favor of another film. Never mind the significance of the film to the gay culture, or the fact that it might be significant for me as their gay friend to see the film. What's more, I can't name a single straight friend of mine who has seen the film to even offer a discussion of it. When the topic comes up -- and I've consciously not been the one to mention the title, or suggest it as a movie-going option -- the comment is always a brusque, 'haven't seen it,' and we move on. I saw it alone, and the most extensive discussion I've had about it has been here.

Still, I think Crash is a more important film. If homosexuality is the taboo subject of conversation, racism is a concept that can't even be thought through. Crash is a brave film, and a very important one because it dares to take racism on in all of its permutations and discuss it, not only as an individual character flaw, but as a social sickness. The characters are not wholly good or bad and the performances are beautiful reflections of human beings, not pastel versions of Hollywood myth.

It was more than thirty-five years between Guess Who's Coming to Dinner and Crash. The film that frankly examines the fear of homosexuality in the same way that Crash looks at racism is the one that I ache to see. It will be made. But, if that film is snubbed by Oscar, then we'll have something to talk about.

The Adelphi No More

During my first complete summer in Chicago, in July, I quit my job because it conflicted with my first play. I was not financially prepared for such a move. My father had died the January before and I was going to need a new apartment in October. I had no skills of any kind, and no money.

Worse, I had no air conditioning, and that summer was one of the hottest ever. If I recall, Fridays, Mondays and Tuesdays were my days for pounding the pavement, to fill in applications. that left the weekends and Wednesdays and Thursdays with nothing to do. As I do now, I was living in Rogers Park at the time, and on Clark Street there was the Adelphi Theater.

The Adelphi was a second-run theater that had seen better days. It was cavernous, with at least one balcony and enormous ceiling fans. On the weekends it was swarming with kids, but during the week it was blessedly empty and for two dollars you could duck in there and see the double feature. On occasion, when it was particularly hot, I'd sit through the double feature twice, until the sun went down. I think I saw Lethal Weapon there, and maybe The Adventures in Babysitting. Usually the movies were teen-sex romps, and I don't remember too much about them. I do remember considering the Adelphi a blessing, and in years since, everytime I passed it I'd say a quick prayer of thanks.

Probably two years after that broiling summer, the Adelphi closed. Three years ago, when I moved back to Rogers Park, there was a sign saying it was reopening soon. I was genuinely looking forward to it. Today, I rode past and discovered the building has been torn down, no doubt in preparation for a luxury condo monstrosity. If they name the building The Adelphi, I swear here and now to don a black veil and scatter rose petals across its threshold.

Political Rant 4

Tom DeLay easily carries the Replican primary. The president rolls out the red carpet to foreign management of American ports. Congress approves the institutionalization of the Patriot Act. I'm telling you, we deserve what we get.

Tendonitis will set in so fast from all the finger pointing that will go on when the next 9/11 happens. There won't be time for grief or reflection. It will be all about assigning blame to the Republicans/Democrats/President/Congress and everyone who ever waved a flag screaming about how the government left us for dead.

The fact, plain and simple, is that we are the government. The people in office are still put there by us. And instead of taking a reasonable stab at understanding even a single issue, the overwhelming majority of Americans vote with their dicks or their hearts. They send a prayer out to Jesus and wait for a voice from the great black void to tell them that the candidate who looks most like them is God's candidate.

It occurred to me today that I try to be a liberal. I think that a liberal point of view is the only American point of view. This country was founded upon the most liberal thinking of the day. We banished a divinely appointed king. That is radical stuff. And in return we demanded freedom. But with freedom comes responsibility and sacrifice. If 'liberal' is a dirty word today, then 'sacrifice' is outright blasphemy. Americans made their sacrifice during World War II by cutting down on chocolate and nylons and we owe the world nothing else. The world owes us whatever price we choose to exact.

And now the world is standing up and saying no. Don't get me wrong. I do not in any way support Al-Quaida or the Taliban, or any movement that curtails freedom. I respect the right to disagree with me and hold sacred my right to disagree with the world. And I'm willing to pay a price for that freedom. If I sleep a little less safely tonight because there is a law protecting all of my civil liberties, then that's a price I am comfortable paying. We've asked hundreds of thousands of Americans to go to the other side of the planet to die for those rights. More than two thousand Americans have died in what I consider a completely unnecessary war. What right do I have to be any safer than they are?

Rescind the Patriot Act.

Impeach George W. Bush.

Political Rant 3

I'll ask the question in as plain terms as possible: When are we going to fire George W. Bush?

I have dear friends who dearly hated Bill Clinton. While, in my political innocence at the time I took the opposing view, I was able to have short rational political discussions with them about the direction of the country. My political views have matured somewhat and I no longer think of Bill Clinton as an American political messiah. I think that not a few of the problems attributed to George Bush are the fruit of seed spilled by Bill Clinton. I'll also go so far as to concede that some (but not all) of the glory lauded upon Clinton was fading light of the dot com boom, which, I believe, was an economic aberration that would have benefitted any sitting president.

However, the worst that can be said about Clinton is that he didn't fuck up a good thing. The proof is in the bottom line, and when he left office we had cash. We don't now. Haliburton has it. When Clinton made his State of the Union address and talked about personal responsibility, I took that message to heart and literally changed my life. I stopped acting, took on a responsible job and began developing a marketable skill set. It was a painful process that came with some heavy personal prices, but in the long run I'm glad I did it. It was the right thing. It was Mr. Clinton's speech that made me make the change, and for that I will be personally greatful. Not only am I better off economically, I'm better off personally. Today, no matter what the economic climate, I have a set of skills I can take into any marketplace, and I'll be able to feed myself.

Mr. Bush couldn't say anything to make me defrost my refrigerator. Smirk and smarm is all I see. Even before he first took office, my mother adopted the policy of turning off the volume on anything that included Mr. Bush's voice; and I think that is a fine policy. I used to try to listen to him and give him the benefit of the doubt, but I can't. I believe every syllable out of his mouth is a pre-programmed lie. Whether that is the truth or not is beside the point. I believe it to be true, and I've stopped looking for evidence to disprove that belief. I'm not to the point where I'm ready to crawl under the bed and pray that there is a world left in two and a half years when we will have to replace Mr. Bush, but let's just say I've swept the dust bunnies from under the bed and thought about where I'm going to put my supply of Ho-Ho's.

I have fired people who have displayed a higher level of competence, so I repeat my question: When will we fire Mr. Bush?

Or better: Name one thing -- ONE -- that Mr. Bush has improved in this country to justify his continued employment. Give me one objective metric by which we can clearly see Mr. Bush's positive contribution. The removal of Saddam Hussein doesn't count, because we are not safer than when he was in power. Democracy isn't on the march. It looks very much like a goose step to me. Like a waft of fresh lilac on a spring day, Mr. Bush was supposed to remove the stench of decaying ethics from the White House. Turns out the alleged ethical fragrance was a spritz of Glade Air Freshener. And just like the canned deodorizer, the masking scent of Mr. Bush has worn thin and the stench has matured and ripened.

A Fright to Remember

Well, tomorrow is my final trek out to the suburban office. Overnight on Wednesday, swarms of movers -- no doubt from impoverished third world countries working for $.58 an hour -- will move the mountain of crap from the old office to the new. My entire department consists of four boxes. That is how woeful their human resources commitment has been.

However, my boss, the vice president of finance, has metric tons of crap that will be moved. In a nod to cleaning out rubbish, I've been assigned the task of sorting threw Alp-like collections of paper. Imagine my horror when I tripped across this little gem: A key ring in the shape of a fish, formed from letters spelling J-E-S-U-S. I'd found several church bulletins, but this artifact frightened me. It was taped to a plea for a commitment of $.58 cents a day to feed a Latin American family of four for a week. (Imagine the number of people who will be fed by the workers who are moving the office crap!) I momentarily toyed with the idea of tossing this urgent plea that had lain deep in the bowels of financial papers for approximately three years, but decided to use it to test my boss.

Now, understand, I like my boss. His wife works in the office next to his and the nightmare the situation could be doesn't exist. They are honestly good people. Or as good as one can be in the imperialist United States while driving gasnivorous, war-wreaking monstrosity down the rugged terrain of an Illinois expressway. Still, good people.

But with the discovery of this plastic relic, I began to fear they might be too good. How does an elephantine faggot such as myself work for one of God's Enlightened?

So, I divided the pile into three demi-piles. One was urgent stuff that needed his immediate attention, one (containing Jesus's fish) with stuff I didn't want to take the responsibility of discarding (and risking eternity bobbing in a lake of fire) and another of precious sheets of information I know need to be entombed in plastic binders.

I took the first two piles to him and discussed the urgent matters. Then I gave him the questionable materials and told him he needed to look threw. When he got to the plastic Jesus fish taped to a picture of an emaciated, crying child with mosquitoes perched on her lashes, he said -- and I quote -- "Man, this is how they get you. They know you won't throw a perfectly good key ring away." Then he ripped it from the child's face (who after three years of neglect under ancient tax returns is probably dead anyway, sated mosquitoes lounging in the hollow of her skull) and tossed the key ring into the back of his desk drawer.

Exactly what I would have done.

A Twinkle in His Eyes and His Toes

I just finished watching the finale for Dancing with the Stars even though the outcome was spoiled for me. Because I went to chorus rehearsal last night, I missed it live. So I watched the recording this evening. I'm quite pleased that my boy Drew won.

For me, the show was all about watching the push for excellence in a forum that ultimately means nothing. The trophy is hideous. There's no tangible monetary gain. Yet most of the competitors really sweated blood. Of course, humiliation on national television serves as a great fear inducer. Still, that induce enough fear in Tatum O'Neal or Master P. I'll bet both of them exert more effort in telling the maid to do the dishes. And I think that's why I never warmed to Stacy Kiebler. She'd had years of ballet and tap training, so she had a shorter distance to travel toward excellence. Her free-style piece was pathetic, and clearly she was coasting. Even though Drew was part of a boy band, that was a completely different arena designed to make him look good. This was a real challenge and his commitment was inspiring. His performances were consistently my favorites.

That drive for excellence humbles me. I have a major paper looming, and the work I've done on it is feeble at best. I have to present it in less than a month, and instead of trying to figure out how to frame it, I should be polishing it up. It's simply disgraceful. I can hide behind the new job, but the truth is that the new job is a cake walk. I couldn't ask for an easier assignment. So, this week is going to be about getting a draft of that paper done.

On another note -- rehearsal last night was fun. I'm definitely glad I didn't audition for a lead role because I wouldn't have had the time to devote to it. As it is, I have one cross, and even that is a little taxing. The show should be cute and a lot of fun.

And of course, it was the first time I saw RP in weeks and he was politely flirty, just enough to live on all week. Ah, how little fantasies sustain our dreary lives!

OK, off to work.

Ouch!

So, my home is mostly clean, including laundry. I'd be all finished, except this morning, while putting away laundry, I jammed my toe under the linen closet door and ripped the nail off my big toe. Amazingly it didn't hurt, but there was a fair amount of blood. And of course I don't have a bandage in the house. So I wrapped it in a clean rag and stuffed in a sock. It's still pretty tender. I've been staying off it as much as possible, but I'm getting around OK. I'll probably spend the day in sandals and socks while I try to get to a drugstore for bandages. The shower will be a bit of a challenge.

Skipped the opera last night in favor of finishing housework. And I developed my annual headache, so it's probably best that I skipped sopranoes and counter tenors.

Now, I've got to put myself together for chorus, and I think I'm going reward myself with a manicure.

I'm off.

'Nuff Said

In my blog travels, I found a link to this website which tells you what the number one pop song was on the day you were born.

In my case, I need no further proof that God has a sense of humor.

The song on my date of birth: "Big Girls Don't Cry."