Last year, on the day I submitted an entry to the summer essay contest over at Toasted Cheese, a large argiope spider took up residence in our garden. While I am generally the kind of person who shrieks in terror and calls her husband to come out with a large flat object whenever arachnids appear, this one seemed special – almost pretty, even – and she was outside in the farthest corner of the yard, so I let her be.

Friends told me that argiopes are beneficial spiders because they snack on mosquitoes, and anything that eats mosquitoes is a good thing, in my book. In addition, one particular friend pointed me toward information about these spiders including the fact that the variety visiting me is a “writing spider,” so called because of the letter-like zig-zags in the stablementium part of their webs. (There’s also this cool legend about writing spiders, which states that if they write your name in their web you will die. So far, I’ve only ever seen them write ZZZZZZZZZZ, however, so I’m not terribly concerned.)

Argiopes only live about a year, but ever since summer started, I’ve been scanning the yard along the back fence, hoping a new argiope would arrive. I enjoyed having her quiet presence last year (the pretty ones are female, the males are smaller and not as flashy), and yesterday, while I was refilling the pool, I felt like there was someone watching me. Turning, I looked at the fence post where last year’s spider had taken up residence – nothing. But a few feet away, in a different section of fence, there was an argiope, basking in the sunlight.

She may not be the daughter of my writing spider from last year, but the chances are good that she is, and I’ve welcomed her into my yard, and taken her presence as a sign that I need to write more, and a blessing upon my blogathon tomorrow.

The last few weeks at work have made me feel brutalized. My job is not particularly difficult, really, I mean, basically I do simple math for a living, but sometimes it can be intense. Especially around month end, which, for us, was yesterday. (Our month-end is 4 business days before the end of the month, the cut-off date for refinances to be closed, so they can fund by the end of the calendar month – recissionary transactions are so much fun.), and while the people I work with are great, I feel trapped by the work part of work right now.

It’s probably got a lot to do with my impending birthday. Sky would say – has said – that Mercury being in retrograde is a contributing factor. What I know is, by the time I went home yesterday, I’d already worked 33 hours, and since I already have Monday the 31st off to recover from Blogathon (you can still pledge, btw) and was literally in tears in the car on the way home this past Monday, I asked for today and tomorrow as well, taking one as a vacation day, and the other instead of the overtime I’d earned this week. And so I am here in bed, reclining against pillows at 11:18 in the morning, groggy because even though I was up yesterday at FIVE, I was in that wired stage where I get too tired to sleep and didn’t go to bed til four (practice for the Thon maybe?), with Zorro draped on my ankle and Miss Cleo sleeping on Fuzzy’s pillow.

Fuzzy is in Florida.

I miss him. The bed is too big, and the dogs are faintly agitated, and my routine is disrupted. I like exploring new things, but I like the comfort of a routine as well.

I’m trying to decide if I should do anything productive today, or truly just rest. Does filling the pool count as productive? The pool guy lectured me on the low water level via door-hanger. I’ve got a stack of videos, but it seems criminal to waste a day watching movies. I should write. But I’m afraid to write. I’m afraid it’ll just make Tuesday, which I’m already dreading, even WORSE.

I should have been independently wealthy.
Or less in love with froufrou things.

I’m three weeks away from my 36th birthday, and I still have no clue what I want to be when I grow up.

*Le sigh*

It’s been disgustingly hot here, to the point where my pool is visibly lower every day, and I know it’s from the weather, because we’ve checked it for leaks. Does filling it so the filter works count as allowable watering if I use the hand-held attachment, I wonder?

I missed work on Friday because I was so nauseous I couldn’t move. This is happening about every fourth month, around a certain time, and is so not fun. Actually, that’s an understatement. I spent most of the day sleeping, and trying, ironically, to keep warm – I was freezing, and I even had the A/C set to about 85 at one point. Even the body heat from the dogs wasn’t helping. I slept most of yesterday as well, and felt well enough to work the door at CSz last night, though we came directly home after, watched tivo’d Stargate, and went back to bed.

I’m reading this sort of sulty, slow, novel about a romance between a British officer and an Italian peasant woman during WWII, and about their daughter many years later. They keep talking about the heat and the scent of figs, and the geraniums everywhere. I miss geraniums.

Last night on the way home, the sky was brightened by flashes of heat lightning, the kind that comes without rain, and looks like backlit color-blocks on the night sky. I closed my eyes, and wished for rain.

1) Fuzzy got the promotion. It is, alas, not enough money to allow me to quit working at BigFinancialCompany and concentrate on writing, but it is enough that I will never have to worry about froufrou salon days being in the budget again.

2) Right now, we are NOT being required to relocate to Florida. This will, however, be re-evaluated in 2007.

The first player of this game starts with writing 6 weird things/habits about themselves and then selects 6 others to write an entry about their 6 weird things/habits as well as state this rule clearly. After making your list of weird things, pick 6 others. They are allowed to laugh at you in your comments as much as they want, so deal! Don’t forget to leave a note that says, “You are tagged!” in their diary.”

1. It doesn’t matter if I sleep til four in the afternooon, or bounce out of bed at seven, I am never really awake until I’ve brushed my teeth, and if the toothpaste is a flavor other than mint, my whole world is off-kilter.
2. I have an underwear fetish, of a sort. My underwear has to match or coordinate with whatever I’m wearing. Granted, no one but me and Fuzzy ever see my underwear, but it’s like a secret. Knowing is half the fun. To this end, I have more underwear than any single human truly needs, and could probably go a month or two without HAVING to wash any, though that would be gross, and favorite outfits would be unworn.
3. Sometimes, I write smut.
4. I have a strong aversion to public restrooms. I have ever since I was little. It might have something to do with being the one to crawl under the door and open the stall from the inside, at the beaches in New Jersey that only have pay-toilets (not like the froufrou ones in Europe, just normal public restrooms with coin-op locks on the doors). When I am in a restaurant or store that has a clean and non-threatening restroom it goes on a sort of mental map. (Yet another reason to frequent Starbucks.)
5. I think in songs. Mostly showtunes. If my life was a play it would so HAVE to be a musical comedy.
6. When I’m writing, especially dialogue, I have to hear it to know if the phrasing is right, so I wander around the house testing bits of scenes I’m working on and very likely confusing Fuzzy, and not just the dogs. I suspect they all want to know who I’m talking to. (I try not to do this in public, because that would border on unpleasantly weird, but sometimes I think I forget. Maybe I should get a bluetooth headset for camouflage?)

   As for tagging, I don’t like to do that. If you’re moved to respond, do so. I tag you, you, you, not YOU, but definitely you, and you…oh, and you too.

…often come wrapped in a few lines of text, like the email I received from an old family friend yesterday. My Wednesday at work was pathetically Thursday-ish, chaotic, and frustrating beyond belief. I was at the office past eight, and I’m still not quite as caught up as I’d like to be, but, mostly so.

I’ve come home too tired to write, even though my mind is burning with ideas, with words desperate to get out, almost every day this week. I miss the days when I had time for daily entries, even multiple entries, and I’m trying to find a way to reclaim that.

I’m in a really horrid place work-wise. The charm of it being a new job has worn off, and I’m bored and restless. The people are cool to hang out with during the forced captivity of working hours, but I keep feeling like there’s something More or Better I could be doing.

I turn thirty-six next month.
Shouldn’t I know by now what I want to be when I grow up?

…than sleeping in til 12-ish on a Sunday…

Which we did…oh, we did, and it was blissful to just rest.

Once we’d stirred ourselves, we ran out to buy food for the furry family members, make a pilgrimage to Office Depot for a binder and pens (which, btw, was disappointing), have lunch and buy new pool toys, and even though Leslie’s is next door to Starbucks, I did NOT get coffee (or anything similar) today. In fact, I declared it was too hot for coffee. (At the time, the thermometer in the dashboard read 109. I don’t think it really WAS, but Forester Gump thought so, and we weren’t inclined to argue).

Came home, stuck the CSz manual into the afore-mentioned binders (after printing section header pages, and a pretty cover, because I’m anal that way), forced a bottle of water down my throat, cuddled the dogs, and went to Workshop, which was incredibly fun, despite me being really really slow about picking up the local variation of Zip-Zap-Zop.

While waiting for Fuzzy, I had a rootbeer float and oh god, there is nothing better than a rootbeer float on a hot summer day. I finished it in the car on the way to Cedar Hill where we FINALLY saw PotC2 (thought the post-credits scene was cute; heard there’s one after Superman as well), which I enjoyed, even though it lacked a real resolution. Could they maybe have flashed “TO BE CONTINUED” on the screen for those of us who couldn’t tell it was screaming “SEQUEL ALERT!” ?

And now, now it’s a bit after one, and Zorro and Cleo are telling me it’s time for bed.

And I quite agree.

…fluttered inside me all day yesterday, but it wasn’t really nerves, as much as queasiness caused by ingesting too much Ora-jel (and similar substances). At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

We left for the theatre early, as we ALWAYS run into serious traffic stoppages where 35 meets 30, and it was weird being there that early and not playing with the inkpad or making sure there was enough chilled water, or vacuuming, or, or, or…. Instead, I hung out with S and D². S joined in the newbie class before ours, and D² and I auditioned in the same group. There was one more woman in our group, but she’s been sucked away by work and life and stuff. I tried to SIP my venti iced nonfat raspberry mocha while chatting with them, but it didn’t work, and I sort of inhaled it. I also tried not to notice that every single table was reserved. No pressure.

J, who was working sound last night, same up to me and handed me her jersey and t-shirt from last night’s game, explaining that she won in it last night, and it would be comfortable without being too revealing – she was right, and that was really sweet of her. She and E, the other woman who played last night, were incredibly supportive and kind, and showed me the two feet of space behind in the bar in the greenroom where you’re not in front of a mirror or visible to the room outside, in which we could change. It should have felt awkward, but somehow it was just amusing. No modesty in theatre, and all that.

Eventually the guys started trickling in, W, who was also in my audition class and had debuted earlier this month, and V, who, like E and J, is a senior player (he’s also seriously tall – J said his jersey number was 67 because he’s 6’7″ – and really good at explaining and guiding. He looks intimidating, but he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met) were my teammates. J2 (another audition mate – this was his third show), and K were on the other team, with E. Our ref was B, who along with KLAE in CA and V and J here is my improv idol, and he seemed to sort of wander in and out of the periphery of whatever the rest of use were doing, being supportive, but staying a bit outside. I’m not sure if that’s a ref thing, or a B thing. I just thought it was interesting.

We did warmups – Woosh!Bong, and Finish the Word (which I’ve played and am usually better at, but they play it differently here), and something that involved singing (note to self: do vocal warmups in car on way to theatre next time), Everybody, Lets!, which is something I need to get more comfortable with, and beep-out. (Note the lack of BUNNY. Note the happiness of me.)

I’d only really decided on my player moniker when J asked me, and I’m not married to it (Melissa “eight to the” Bartell), but J2 has changed his a couple times in his three shows, so I might also. We shall see.

They mocked me for not knowing how Vending worked, but I’m almost always still stamping hands or working bar during that part of the show – I’ve never actually seen it – my vending item was chopsticks (a toy axe and sticks of wood – cuz I’m all about the weaponry).

We opened with Schoolyard Insults (Perspiring Delicious Manacles – actually the suggestion was Perspirating, not Perspiring) which we lost, but it was fun anyway, and the audience enjoyed it.

Next was Blind Line from the red team (need to learn to write faster) and 3-Headed Broadway Star from us, which we didn’t do very well. In retrospect, I think that will improve when we know each other better, because it really is an exercise in groupthink. V being so tall, and me being so NOT tall, he arranged for himself and W to sit on stools on either side of me, took off his jersey, and reversed it so they were each wearing one arm, and the back of it was across me – I thought this was really clever. Red won that round.

The next round was Interrogation from the red team, and forward and reverse from us – V’s amazingly huge pratfall sold it (it looked painful, actually), but it was fun even so. V made the suggestion that I find a way to do a Canadian Cross to keep the scene from being all “talking heads” – and he was right because it added layering, but also was something linear that was easy to back up and redo. We won that round.

Red got to do Five Things, and we teased the audience that they must’ve been really hungry, because almost every suggestion was candy, and most of the candy was something small and squishy, which made it difficult for the guesser, because it’s hard to distinguish a mimed marshmallow from a mimed gummi bear. Really. (V whispered to me that he thought they’d guess three of the five, and was right.)

At half-time I was presented with an actual manual (B said he’s the official maker of copies), which I’m going out to purchase a binder for today. Yay binders. Yay reading material. I was wired when we got home last night so read through it, but didn’t really do much else, and I crashed pretty early (well, for me).

2nd half we did birthdays, and since my friend/coworker A had come to the show, and was a birthday celebrant, she was invited up on stage for our catch-up game, which was Dance Party (Freeze tag with Dancing) which was fun, and crazy, and I think I’m taking all her calls for a month to make up for it.

After that was Do-Rap, which I blanked on, but it had already gone down the whole line at that point, so it was time for someone to be out, and then 185 with some really good suggestions (sardines). Oh, KLAE: I no longer hate 185.

Notes were good. I got more from them after actually playing.

And then we were done, and did the slap-out line, and Fuzzy and I went to dinner with A and her son A2. (I’d have liked to go out with the troupe, but it was better to go with them, and it was nice and relaxing, and a good wind-down. Also, managed to get home before one.)

I’m psyched about workshop today, and I know I’ll be more confident.

With apologies to Poe for stealing his line. Or do you need to apologize for stealing borrowing material from a dead guy?

We’re leaving for the theatre in two minutes. It’s my first night on stage with Comedy Sportz. I’ve been performing in some fashion or another since I was FIVE YEARS OLD. I’ve won awards, even – I mean, local ones, but still….

So why am I more terrified of this than of anything else?

I wonder if it relates to the same reason I’m afraid to really push to get published in something other than lit zines and websites.

Most people have fear of failure.

My stepfather, whose advice is generally dead-on (much as I often hate to admit it), says I have fear of success.

Something to examine at another time, I guess.

Meanwhile, I bought new sweats today, and a t-shirt to wear to dinner that sports a butterfly on the front. My theory is that if I make the butterfly my totem for the evening by wearing it on my chest, the butterflies in my stomach will disperse gracefully.

Well, it was worth a thought.
And the shirt’s damned cute. Kinda flirty. Has shiny bits. And much cleavage.
(I also bought a new sports bra for tonight, cuz bouncing around in underwire is so NOT fun.)

TMI, non?

May you all have a fun and festive Saturday evening.
Further bulletins apres-show.

I remember the smell of my grandmother’s lipstick, back in the days when it was perfumed, and came in pretty metal tubes that had real weight. I remember the way she would stretch her mouth and paint the lines of her lips with such care, bright red, smashing pink, and then blot, leaving smeary kisses on pieces of tissue which would then be carelessly discarded. I remember the way she always smelled like perfume and powder and how my grandfather used to hate it when she kissed him with a freshly painted mouth.

(She had the best powder puffs, too.)

I remember my bubbie telling my mother and me that lipstick was her only makeup since she was widowed. “You can’t go out without it,” she said, and we looked at her with expressions of incredulity, especially my mother, who never wears lipstick at all, any more, because her skin is so dry it bleeds right off, leaving her with spaghetti mouth. Better just to coat her lips with barely-tinted balm, and have healthy skin, if not a colorful smile.

(Her smile, when she looks at me, is what I call her “gushy mom look,” full of love and pride.)

I watch the women I work with reapplying their lipstick after lunch, standing over the bathoom sinks like so many college girls in a communal bath, except we’re not, and they aren’t. I don’t reapply mine, and these days have been only slathering on balm myself, as my lips are bruised and dry from dental trauma and not enough water.

(I will never learn to drink enough water.)

I came home tonight to find that my dog, Miss Cleo, had done her own explorations with lipstick, choosing to eat a tube of Aveda tinted gloss (in “Berry”) that had fallen out of my bag. Her lipstick kisses are all over the bed and the rug, and she was sheepish and apologetic. But for the first night ever, she didn’t reach up to give puppy kisses, so maybe when she does that, she’s not telling me she loves me, but rather trying to taste the stuff on my lips.

(I forgave her, because she’s adorable.)

My mother always teases us with the notion of applying lipstick to Miss Cleo’s overlarge lips, and we always refuse…perhaps Miss Cleo wanted to be one of the girls, too.

(I remember, I remember)

I remember Auntie Annette giving me little tubes of samples from ages long since gone, with matte reds and burnished coppers, but also one tube of truly disturbing silver left over from the 60’s, and when I put them on, for fun, I would feel mature and leave my own trail of tissue paper kisses.