Another Thing I Want

This dress . . . . But, dammit, I suppose there are a few things I'll have to lose first before I can find this. Oh, well, it's still wicked cute.

My Mother and Revisionist History

I was talking to my mother about the pastry school and Second City and what do you know? Apparently my mother is under the impression that she told me a long time ago, 1994 to be precise, that I should either go to Northwestern or just forget college and move to Chicago to study improv/theatre. Um, yeah. What? ‘Scuse me? At what point did my mother tell me this? Answer? Never. Unless, of course, I have early onset Alzheimer’s and just forgot. Wow. That must be what happened. Sucks to be me.

I love my mother to little bits and pieces, truly, however she’s a nut. I’m just trying to imagine the words “forget college” coming out of her mouth and, let me tell ya’, it ain’t happening. I do recall her telling me to apply to Radford as a last resort school…that could, I suppose, be construed as telling me to forget college but, I assure you, Chicago was never mentioned. What’s next? Is she going to tell me that my father is actually Elvis but I knew that, right? That she’s a Republican and thinks GW is doing just a super job? Is she going to deny the holocaust and tell me she always felt that way and what made me think we were Jews?! Jesus.

Things I've Always Wanted To Do

http://secondcity.com/?id=training-education/training/chicago/course_index/impindex/weekend

It has been my dream since, well, birth to go toThe Second City. I always thought that if I took one day of one class there I'd be able to figure out if I was really funny. Hell, I think if I go to a show I could figure it out just by observing what is considered funny. I know. I know. You all think I'm funny. Thank you. Thank you and I don't care. Not to be rude but I need to know if I'm a specific kind of funny. I fear the answer which is why I've never been to Second City. Not even to a show. I fear the Second City...and I long for it. Go figure.

http://www.frenchpastryschool.com/our_program/index.html

If you're going to be a pastry chef you should be trained by the best. This school is the best. I've been thinking, on and off, about being a pastry chef since 2001. I don't know why. Everybody loves pastry and bread...well, not everybody but those people are friggin' scary so I'm not counting them...and I'm no exception. I would love to have my own bakery. I've always thought that would be the best job (outside of being funny for a living). I know it's wicked hard work and that you have to wake up at, what? 2 AM? Whatever. Don't care. It would be great. That's all.

PS
1.) Why does everything cost $22K? Why?! OK. If you follow the link to Second City that doesn't cost that much BUT that's only the weekend workshop. If you want to do all the classes it adds up to about $22K. Joy.

2.) Why are the two things I want to do in the coldest city I can think of? Do I like the cold? No. No. I don't. I'm cold when it's 65 out! Life is cruel.

There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) begins at midnight. Oh, yeah, baby! It's on.

Now that the bravado is out of the way I think it's safe to tell you that I have no ideas. None. Not a one. Niente. Nada. Zip and DooDa. I'm sure that will pass. Right?


RIGHT?!

Anyway. Moving on.

If you don't want to be used for your character traits tell me now or you may be immortalized for the world (or, in this case, me and my editer a.k.a. Patherine) to see.

PS I refuse to spell check a post this short so you're on your own. If you are offended by my bad spelling you can suck it, Trebek!

The Misanthrope Goes To The Movies

"Particles of Truth" a Review of Total Crap
By Dark Fury

From the first shot you know that this is an art piece made by a woman who is totally and completely in love. With her own voice and face. It is about ninety minutes long and eighty minutes of that time is spent on close up shots of her looking pensive, sad, angry, etc. And, to make matters worse, the entire movie is shot with that oh so annoying "realistic" shaky camera work. I hate this like poison. I hate it, actually, more than poison. Poison has uses.

Have I ever mentioned why I hate C.S. Lewis? Well, in case I haven't, it's because he hits you over the head with the metaphore. This annoys me. A lot. Well, the broad who made this movie must love "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe." Her character finally finds redemption through a death bed renconciliation with her father who looks like.....wait for it.....Jesus. Seriously? Did I need that little clue to realize that this was the turning point in her life? Probably not. Well, not if I had been paying attention at that point which I wasn't because I couldn't take her friggin' voice whining on and on and on and the close ups of her face (sans make-up for that, again, realistic look) that also go on and on and on.

This film, for it is art and must never be called a movie, is unbearable. Truly. Every character is a mess. Every character is barely a character because the artiste who made the film/art piece/piece of crap can't be bothered to flesh out anyone or thing but her own meandering, maudlin, decrepit, predictable, pure shite story line. If you can even call it that since nothing happens. I deep down hate this movie. I may even hate the woman who wrote, directed, starred in and, for all I know, edited the damn thing.

In conclusion, if ever you need to know that life is worth living rent this movie. Once it's over and done with life seems sweeter. It's like the old joke.

Person 1: Why are you hitting yourself with that hammer?
Person 2: Because it feels so good when I stop.*

* I didn't say it was a good joke. I said it was old.

Oh, sleep! It is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole.

I am an old woman. Old I say! Used to be that I could go and drink to the wee small hours of the morning and then trot off to work while, if not exactly smiling, not cursing all of G-d's creation. Those days have passed.

First of all, let me say that I had a blast Sunday night and it was well worth the agony of having to drag my sorry arse out of bed at six o'clock in the morning. What could have been better than getting slightly toasted with my best friends around a fire pit while eating s'mores? Nothing. I believe I can safely say that a good time was had by all. Well, possibly not the poor Englishman who went up a hill and came down in dirty talk town. But I don't think we scarred Jonathan's friend for life so, all in all, no harm no foul and he couldn't have been lovelier about it all (I was, I must admit, disappointed that he wasn't on display behind glass as had been previously discussed but you can't have everything in this life).

Getting up the next morning? Not lovely. Not at all. I was a miserable bitch the entire day. Luckily there was not a lot of interaction with others on the job today. So, everything was going well till I, like a total and complete moron, fucked it up! I had to deliver about twenty-three envelopes today around my quite large and many storied building. So, what did I think to myself? "Self," I thought "why not take the stairs? Why, yes! That's a great idea!" That was, needless to say, not a great idea. I did it but it almost killed me. I made it up all the stairs and around every floor (1-16) without passing out but I took the elevator down or I would have fallen down. Here is the question of the day. Why am i so damn dumb?

S.O.S

My Halloween costume arrived today and . . . . . . . . IT'S SHITE!!

Depression.

So, I need a knew idea. Anyone? Anyone? Feel free to provide me with ideas. I may have to be a hippie. Which might work. I do find them scary. . . . What with the stink and everything. And I do have big hair so it may be my last option.

Again I'm begging for ideas here, people. Begging.