hitting the road

Below you'll find a picture of me.

A picture of me on stage.

On stage having fun.

Having fun and being funny.

You can tell I'm being funny because Bert and Brent are laughing big belly laughs.
Laughing big belly laughs at me/with me/near me is pretty much the highest compliment you can give me.

I like this picture, even though my face is wonky and the picture is blurry.
Especially though my face is wonky and the picture is blurry.
I like this picture because it's me doing something I love to do.

Making people laugh in a fancy theater (okay, the attic of a fancy theater) at a comedy festival.

Right there I'm talking about those hand-puppets that therapists use so people who aren't comfortable talking about their emotions can get a buffer.  So it's like the bear/doll/sock is going through it instead of the person connected to the hand up in the guts of the bear/doll/sock.
Most, I think, are familiar with the concept.  Especially thanks to Dr. Marvin.  Dr. Leo Marvin.
I like making light of concepts that aren't really all that light.

There are lots of not light things happening with those hand-puppets that therapists use, but they are so damned funny to me. 

Play therapy is really cool.  And effective.  Did you know that if you leave a kid- any kid- alone to play with a bunch of different kinds of toys they will pick certain ones and play out things that bother them or things they can't quite figure out, and they will manipulate the toys and the situation until they solve their problem and give it an ending where they are in control of things?  It's pretty cool.  Your own kids do it while you put them down in front of their things so you can poop or get the dishes done or whatever it is you need to do.  You can sneak and watch them if you want.  Calmly and slowly intervene if the Barbies start getting extremely violent or humpy.

Oh, and speaking of comedy festivals, you'll be able to catch us in New York City at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater on August 14th at 11:30 am (sorry, you'll have to skip church.  God will understand, and most likely even encourage).  Asteroid! was accepted into the Del Close Marathon, which is pretty much the highest compliment you can give an improv team.

gap

I rode the bus in to work this morning, something that rarely happens these days.

On the corner of Broad Street closest to my house, right where I was waiting for the bus, a lady in a really shiny new Corolla was driving down the street with a flat tire.  She looked confused, but no more than any other well-coiffed, pressed-powdered, middle-aged lady who probably lives in Packer Park or somewhere down there (isn't it funny how you can pinpoint someone's neighborhood just by how they look and what they drive?) looks driving up Broad at eight o'clock in the morning.  She had her head cocked like a puppy, so I'm assuming she heard the thumping noise, but maybe she figured it was coming from outside the car.

So the fancy lady in her fancy car with the flat tire stopped at a red light and I thought for a second that maybe I should tell her but then as soon as I almost considered it another Corolla drove between me and the lady.

A different kind of Corolla.
Brownish, with gold flecks.
Not new.
Car probably older than the driver.
Blackened windows.
Virgin of Guadalupe on the dash under the PR flag hanging from the mirror.
"Rims", I think the kids are calling them these days, four of them that are probably worth more than the car.
Hydraulics.  Hydraulics!
The windows rolled down and a kid with tattoos on his face and a bandana around his neck asked the fancy lady to roll down her window.

She did.
An inch.

And he told her about her flat.  So she pulled over.  And he pulled over behind her and they both got out of their cars and when she saw he was there she put her purse back in her car and locked it and held her keys like claws and he pulled a big dirty bag out of his trunk and said "don't worry, I can have this fixed in no time.  I know a lot about Corollas".

And before the bus came the tire was fixed and the lady was on her way to wherever ladies like her go on a Friday morning and the guy was on his way to wherever guys like him go on a Friday morning and before they went on their way she gave him a big hug and he called her mamacita and all was right in the world.

sheath

I've found my self shocked! and appalled!  at the number of women my age who wear panty hose these days.  I thought that we, as a society, were past that.

Panty hose with shorts and panty hose with open toed shoes.  Barf.  It's like wearing condoms on your legs.  All day.  Webbed up toes and compression in weird places.  Seam running up your belly like a worm.  Leaves a mark like you are too fat for your pants.
I know I need to cut back on the snacking if I can tell where my pants have been after I take them off.

I can't handle it.

Panty hose sounds like an insult.
"Sheila?
Man... shit. I hear she's one of them panty hoes.
You best steer clear of that one.
Get you in trouble, them panty hoes."

I'm weirded out by socks in general.  Socks that are visible when wearing shorts are creepy.  German tourist creepy. The tiniest peek out the top of the shoe and it's totally over for me.
Ankle socks under long pants with visible ankle skin makes me wish we had decency laws about something like that.
I can't stop staring and wondering how that feels okay.
The odd gap in cotton.
And toe seams?
And sock heels that don't cup your heel just right?
OMG stop.

I buy these amazing shoes for Jake each summer.  They aren't open toe, they  have a great sole, they are rugged, they don't have laces he can trip on, they are machine washable and can handle once weekly washings all summer long and still be good enough to pass down to someone else for another summer of wear.  He calls his pair his "strap shoes" and calls the ones I have my "camping shoes".

His school calls them inappropriate.
He has to wear "real sneakers" or put socks under his strap shoes.
Did you just puke a little?
Me too.

He doesn't have "real sneakers" (never mind that the girls can wear little Mary Janes or flats) and he isn't about to get any.  Strap shoes are fifty bucks and that about does it for the shoe allowance.
He didn't have anything other than white crew socks left over from winter.

So there went my child yesterday.  To school.  Wearing white socks and sandals.

I tried to fold them down and make them invisible, but white under red and black strap shoes are anything but invisible.

I tried.

And when I picked him up from school, he had them pulled up practically around his neck.  He knew he could take them off when he saw me, so they were off right away.  And I threw them out.

I bought two 3paks of little black Peds socks at Payless yesterday afternoon.  That helps.  A bit. Plus they were on BOGO.  Score.

I didn't tell him I have this problem.  I don't want to pass the crazy on down or anything.  But he's 5.  And 5 knows there is something wrong with socks and strap shoes.

I never wore socks as a kid.  My 6th grade English teacher, Mrs. Brown, told me I'd get arthritis if I kept it up.  My ankles are one of the only places where I don't get arthritis pain.  So I'm guessing not wearing socks actually behooves an individual.

My grandfather used to tell me I'd get piles if I sat on cold concrete, so I should stay off the step unless I had a blanket under me.
Piles of what?
Hemorrhoids. 

We learned in seventh grade sex ed that the birthing process gives you hemorrhoids.  In the car that night I asked my mom if I had hemorrhoids when I was born.
I was confused.
She thought maybe there was something wrong with my butt.
There wasn't.

akimbo

Someday when I'm independently wealthy and have government health benefits and lots of free time on my hands, I'm going to roam the country and perform monologues on big stages with fancy velvet curtains and small ones with no curtains at all. 
I think I'd be good at standing around and talking and talking and talking.  About any old thing.  Audience choice.  I think I'd be okay with whatever was thrown at me, I have lots of crap in my head. 

I used to have a blog called "tell me the one about..." where all posts were done by reader request, but no one read it and after the first three posts were done I ran out of readers so I closed the blog.

I went to an improv workshop last weekend and got to do a little alone-on-the-stage time. 
That's super awkward for me, but I like it.  I think I like it even better than doing things up there in groups, and I love doing that.
Being alone up there is great, once I figure out where to put my hands.

My hands are always getting in the way of me appearing to be calm and comfortable.  I like to cross my arms, but that pushes my boobs up and together and then I feel like everyone is staring at my boobs.  I don't know whether clasping them together is supposed to be done in the front or the back, and putting them on my hips makes me feel angry.  I like to hold one elbow and push my bottom lip up with my index finger when I'm listening to something, but I feel like that's maybe why I get clogged pores under my lip and sometimes they get so clogged that my skin gets dark and I'm afraid people will think I'm growing a soul patch.  (have you seen those Hanes commercials where Michael Jordon has a Hitler-stache?  I don't think that's something you can bring back.  Too soon, Michael, too soon)  I rub my thumb nail with my other thumb when I'm feeling looked at.  Watch me for a little while and you'll be able to tell when I'm uncomfortable.  It's really bad when I start pinching the pads of my fingers until my nails leave little marks that look like the pause button.  Or the number 11.

I wasn't prepared to talk about the topic I got to talk about, and there was some major sweating involved.  A moment of "I could either lie about this stuff, or just go tits deep and tell the truth". I almost cried. I got goosebumps.  But I got some laughs, some applause, and when we were done I was stopped by people I didn't even know who wanted to tell me that they've been through some of the things I spoke of.  One person told me she thought she was the only person in the world who ___ and feels better now that she knows she's not.  Another said that he never realized why he ___ but all of a sudden he remembered that when he was a kid ___ happened to him too and it all makes sense now.  A third person gave me a big hug and said "thank you".

I like that feeling.  I like making people feel less alone.

What did I talk about?  All sorts of stuff.  From shag carpeting to calling Laura Ingalls Wilder a dirty prairie calico see-you.  I'm still mad at her over the whole The Little House Books Are Fiction thing. 
All very personal accounts of some very personal things.
Me. 
On Stage. 
Disclosing.

If you would have told me a year ago that I would be able to do that today I would have laughed at you.  Then excused myself to the bathroom because I would have gotten the feeling that pants pooping is imminent. But today I am starting to do it, and I like it.

Improv-type monologues might be my next big project, so watch out for that.  As soon as I find the time.  Time is in short supply these days.

***

I'm sick.  Boo to that.  But I get to eat my favorite sickfood- those little star noodles in spinach and carrots with just a little bit of broth and lots of black pepper straight out of the grinder.  I make my broth out of Knorr vegetable bouillon cubes.  I used to use the canned stuff, and opened it by poking two triangle holes in the top with one of those oldenfashioned can openers, but the last time I used canned broth I couldn't find the can puncher and used the regular opener that takes off the whole top and I found mold in all six of my broth cans.  Three different brands, all different lot numbers, all moldy.  Black, slimey mold.  I called the companies and they offered me coupons for free cans of broth and said they know that can happen, but I shouldn't have a problem if I "boil the broth for ten minutes, which shouldn't be a problem if I'm making soup".  Ick.

What brands were they?  I don't know if I can use real brand names here but I'll just say this:
College Out
Swandaughters
Trader Shmo's

I probably should have told you that story six months ago during soup season when you could have used the information.