^_^ One of our cast members knows a guy who cuts trailers and he did one for our show, Measure for Measure:

So, yeah, not been getting a lot of mileage out of my lifetime membership here lately. Not so much a matter of having nothing to say or enough time to put it down so much as sheer laziness. I keep thinking "I should blog about that" (seen as a sign of insanity in some cultures) but I always find an excuse to read another chapter, play a bit more of my game, stuff like that. Well, I'm forcing myself to write something today. In part because I feel like I should write something and in part because I'm lacking (as many) diversions. I'm home sick, more or less. *wrinkles nose* Or at least I spent most of the day sick, and when I left work to get to the seminar for Capoeira, I realized that not only did my limbs feel weak as they'd done all day, but I was actually shivering despite it not being very cold and me wearing a rather warm coat with fur lining. All in all, it was convincing enough for me. I can't seem to find my thermometer to check my temperature (I have a vague feeling of having seen it recently, but I can't quite place where) but I don't feel overly warm. I've been mildly nauseated throughout the day, mainly because my sense of smell was going all wonky. Or at least I think it was... maybe everyone else was smelling the same things and just acting like there wasn't a reek. My body hurt, I felt weak and shaky, and I had trouble focusing. And, even though I've eaten fairly copiously, I have been starving all day. Anyhow, I decided not to go to class, and furthermore decided that it wasn't worth going back into work for another hour or two. Hopefully, I feel better tomorrow.

So, updates on life. Last I posted, we had yet to start performances of Babes in Toyland. It went well in my opinion. We had some shaky bits on stage including a dancer hurting her wrist, a toy firetruck going off on stage, blocks flying into the audience, and an actress's bracelet having a critical existence failure when she was slapping me onstage, again sending things flying into the audience. The audience had fun. The actors had fun. Good show. I'm currently in final rehearsals for Measure for Measure with Collingswood Shakespeare. I'm having a hard time getting a handle on my character, as he talks in a much different voice (and I'm not talking about Shakespearean dialect) than I do, but the director seems to think I'm doing alright.

Then, there's Capoeira. *sigh* I'm in a slump. Partly, I've missed more class than I ought to between work and theater. Partly... I'm finding myself inexplicably getting worse as time goes by. I have some theories ranging from me getting to the point where I'm doing Capoeira rather than Capoeira-flavored Tae Kwan Do to the idea that maybe I'm hitting one of those physiological shifts I go through occasionally where my body decides to bulk up. The latter would even fit in nicely with how much my appetite has increased lately. But, ultimately, it's a big problem. I'm slowing other people down and I'm just not having much fun at it. It's a bit better when I show up at the beginner classes, but I'm not supposed to do that as a green-belt, for all that I think it's the best possible solution for me currently. Eh, if it truly becomes a problem, they can tell me to stop, right?

Otherwise... life is pretty normal, I guess. So many things I ought to be doing with my life, but I'm in a comfortable rut in a lot of ways. I'm lonely here, as much as I hate to admit it. For whatever reason, I'm having a hell of a time connecting with people. I do have a few friends about town, but I find myself forgetting about them for days at a time (admittedly, that's how I wind up with my college friends, albeit substitute weeks to months to years on that count). I dunno... around June, I'm going to put out some feelers about Pittsburgh jobs. There, I had some pretty steady friends and, of course, I have family. Maybe it will be better for me. This man was not meant to live alone.

Hopefully, thisgets picked up with the same high search rank of my "rectal bleeding" entry (I still keep getting hits from people asking about rectal bleeding after marathons... ick). As some of you might have known, my computer kind of died on me for a while. Well, I finally got it to a repair guy. They plugged it in, resettled all of the connectors and it worked fine, at least for the most part. I suspect he might have also done some degree of OS flash on it, because I've lost a number of drivers, my computer's date was set to some time in 2002, and my dynamic drive settings were gone. What's a dynamic drive, you might ask? It's something that Microsoft cooked up for Windows NT and included in Windows XP Professional. In fact, by default, it seems to make any added disks dynamic drives. This apparently lets you reassign drive letters more flexibly, resize partitions on the fly, and do a RAID through the operating system. It also means that your dynamic drive is useless if you ever have to go to Windows XP Home or your primary drive gets fried. Oh, and if you reinstall the operating system, Windows forgets all of your partitions and offers only the option to reformat. This happened to me once before and I panicked and sent the computer out for repair. Having just gotten this computer back from repair (and not having access to the person who fixed this the last time), I did some poking around and I found a solution.

The solution was within an article on how to non-destructively move data from a dynamic disk to a basic disk. They recommended a utility called TestDisk for restoring partitions. And, by golly,it worked. I ran TestDisk on the dynamic drive and it recovered all of my drive settings. I had a few annoyances involving reassigning drive letters, but by and large, this was quite a success. My drive is back up and running now. So, should anyone else run into this, here's how to fix it.

Hrm... I know I have some kind of commitment Thursday night... I just can't remember what. Which, quite frankly, is very vexing. We don't have a show that night. Maybe I'm thinking of the Godspell auditions at Kelsey theater? Except I have this vague memory of deciding to go to the Saturday auditions (for all that that means I would miss the company kid's Christmas party at Dave and Busters [I already missed the adult one due to Babes in Toyland]) because I had some commitment Thursday. Maybe it will come to me later. Or maybe I'll get an angry phone call Friday asking where I was. I really don't know.

Aha! There's a "happy hour" thing through work. Since I missed the actual holiday party, I decided to attend this to be halfway social. Och... I'm near dead on my feet. I was in my usual state of short sleep, I did Capoeira last night so I'm sore, and then I gave blood today, and I'm finding that the words keep blurring on the screen. Well, we'll at least push through a bit more here.

It's been entirely too long since I last posted. Unfortunately, not much time to post now. Some notes on how I should expand this entry:

• Talk about Babes in Toyland including mentioning of set design.
• Talk about Thanksgiving in Pittsburgh including traffic woes getting back
• Mention oversleeping panic / eventual success with presentation at work

Hmm... I got in late last night (this morning?) at about 3:30 AM after karaoke and a diner with a girl I met via OKC (entirely friendly date, nothing romantic) and fell asleep in fairly short order, setting my alarm to wake up in time to help out with set construction at Haddonfield Plays and Players at 11 AM. I woke up to my alarm and a stab of pain as my neck shifted  as I was jolted asleep. I knew I'd wrenched it at Capoeira Friday evening (I was practicing my headstand and when I fell out of it while practicing moving my legs about, I came back up with a strain along the right side), but it hadn't hurt quite so much. So I grabbed two ibuprofen and went back into bed, forgetting to reset my alarm in the process. I woke up at 5 PM. 5 PM! And after such horribly thrilling dreams as browsing a webpage on how to craft accessories for tabletop games... the one I read right before waking involved how to use cheese cubes with magnets in them as a particular effect in one game. I don't know why I slept so long. *sigh* Oh well, only thing left is to deal with it. No set construction for me today. And I think I'm going to skip karaoke. Eh, it will be good for my wallet anyhow.

*sigh* Well, I was going to go to Capoeira today.I planned things out so that I could get to work early, get my time in, and then head off to class. The way it actually worked out, I was terribly sleep-deprived and the coffee I drank kept me awake, but I was terribly jumpy by the time I left. And then I realized that my coat was failing to hold enough heat in given I had about three blocks of walking to the subway station and another 6-7 at the other end. So I come home, figuring I was not in shape to do practice. And... I feel perfectly fine now. I'm still feeling a little bit knurd right now. And I should be sleeping. But I still need to eat dinner and practice some lines. And I should get some exercise to counteract my missing class... but none of that seems to happening right now. Eh.

Egyptian Ella

Egyptian Ella

by Walter Doyle

Ella was a dancing girl who started getting fat
Every day saw three more pounds on Ella
Until one day she found she'd lost her job because of that
And to make it worse, she'd lost her fella
She took a trip to Egypt to forget
And she made such a hit that she's there yet ...

So if you hear of a gal who can quake and shake
'Till it makes you think of a nervous snake
They're speakin' ... of Egyptian Ella
She weighs two-twenty but that's O.K.
They like 'em plenty down there that way
She has the love ... of every fella
And when she shakes and when she starts
Down by the River Nile
The boys all take their old sweet-hearts
And throw them to the crocodiles
And every sheik in the audience
Jumps up and yells that "she's immense!"
They're cheering for Egyptian Ella.

All the other dancers from the desert to the Nile
One by one admit that they are jealous
For although they dance each night and wear the sweetest smile
Ella's is the tent that draws the fellas
For Ella has a dance that they can't steal
'Cause nothing else could do it but an eel
So if you hear of a gal who can quake and shake
'Till it makes you think of a nervous snake
They're speakin' ... of Egyptian Ella
She weighs two-twenty but that's O.K.
They like 'em plenty down there that way
She has the love ... of every fella
And when she shakes and when she starts
Down by the River Nile
The boys all take their old sweet-hearts
And throw them to the crocodiles
And every sheik in the audience
Jumps up and yells that "she's immense!"
They're cheering ... for Egyptian Ella.

___________________________

Copyright 1931 by Skidmore Music Co./Cambell, Connolly and Co.

---

^_^ A cute little song. I got it off of the Ted Weems CD below. Interestingly enough, this song was considered too risqué for film back in the day, almost resulting in a movie being banned under the Hayes Code for including it in a number.

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He paused
and waited for the beep to happen again. Somewhere off in the
distance, he could hear children screaming in their games. There was
the gentle rushing of the blood in his ears, the creak of the
floorboards as he shifted his weight... there! The beep sounded again
and Norman turned until he felt like he was going the right direction
for it. Down through the living room, past the bookcases, always
fully stocked, mocking him quietly with the sheer mass of words that
he'd probably never get around to reading. Just so many things to do
in the day and never enough time... there was the beep again. He
loped across the room and hopped over the threshold into the kitchen.
It would be right over... ah. The microwave sat there, blinking
urgently at him that the food was done and could be grabbed whenever
he was ready. He smiled a rueful grin, knowing exactly what he would
find. He punched the button for the door and it swung open, revealing
a thick purple mug, mostly filled with water. He reached in and
pulled it out with a wistful sigh. There were certainly worse bad
habit for a spouse than constantly leaving your tea cup in the
microwave when making tea. Still, after ten years... sometimes he
thought she did it just to twit him. Every time, he'd find the cup
there...

“Darling, I think you left something
in the microwave,” he called out, gamely. As his words echoed off
the walls of the empty house, he switched to a screechy falsetto, “I
know, honey... I was going to get to it. I just needed to finish this
chapter... about three chapters ago,” and he heard the phantom
laughter in her head as she giggled, “I'd forget my head if it
weren't bolted on. You did remember to tighten the nuts when you left
this morning, right?” And indeed, that morning, just like every
morning, for ten years, 3 months, 14 days, he'd mimed the ratchet in
his sound, making clucking sounds every time he twisted
counter-clockwise as she giggled and made mock protest at how silly
he was being... Norman heaved a sigh and looked sadly at the mug. All
these years and she stayed with him. Her silky brown hair cascading
around her shoulders, her eyes half puffy with sleep when she woke up
– she'd never been a morning person in any way – as he begged him
to please make her some coffee so she could wake up enough to get out
of bed. And every day, he'd kiss her on the cheek and roll out of bed
to make it for her. And he'd always get back to find her loudly
snoring away, sprawled across the bed, trying valiantly to snatch
just a few more minutes of sleep. And he'd sit there and watch her,
her face so relaxed and innocent. Eventually, he'd feel like the
coffee was cooling too much and he'd gently shake her awake. And when
he'd hand the mug to her, she'd take it with both hands, almost like
a little kid, and sip at it, her eyes still mostly closed and he
would kiss her on the forehead before getting off the bed to dress
for the day. Within minutes of him grabbing his clothes, the
whistling and catcalls would start. “Take it off!” she'd cry and
immediately riposte with “Put it back on!” the moment he started
sliding the robe off. Every once in a while, he would start shaking
his hips and doing his best to do a burlesque dance. And she'd be
lying there in bed, shivering in paroxysms of giggle, kicking her
legs as she tried to catch her breath. And every time, when he let up
on it, she would jump up and kiss him, wrapping her legs around his
waist as she kissed him before composing her face into a very serious
mask and saying, “I love you, honey, but don't quit your day job”
before hopping down and smacking him on the ass. He sighed again and
stared at the coffee cup lost in thought. And then his brow furrowed
as something struck him. He waved his hand over the top of the cup.
No steam. Reflexively looking both ways to be sure no one was
watching, he dipped his finger in the water. Lukewarm, only slightly
above room temperature. She must have left hours ago for the water to
have cooled that much... Norman bit the inside of his mouth, trying
to keep himself from imagining what might have happened to her. No...
it was probably nothing. She went out shopping and got caught up with
talking to a friend, or decided that she was going to master Pump It
Up again and was spending dollar after dollar of quarters feverishly
mashing the buttons to The Turkey March on Insane mode, or... Norman
found his head filled with thoughts of home invasions, terrorist
attacks, traffic accidents... the car. He turned a bit too quickly
and as his arm swung to catch his balance, it connected to the mug
and he saw it start sailing across the room, the liquid exiting in
beautiful crystal arcs, in slow motion as he felt his thigh muscles
bunch up and heard his hips creak as he shifted his weight, leaping
after the mug, also moving in slow motion, but slightly faster than
the mug, and he was in the air, sailing improbably fast and slow,
fingers outstretched. He landed with a thud that was drowned out by
the sound of ceramic shattering on the linoleum floor.

Some part of Norman's mind was trying
to tell him that his ribs were none too happy with how he'd landed,
but all he could see were the pieces of that ugly purple mug lying
there, the water slowly seeping across the floor in little questing
fingers. She'd bought that mug maybe five years ago, got it from a
yard sale for a quarter. It listed slightly to one side, didn't lie
flat on the table, and the glaze had been applied unevenly, leaving
lumpy little blisters up both sides, but she loved that little tacky
thing, swore that something in its feng shui
made the water taste sweet whenever she used it. Norman sometimes
itched to chip off a bit of the paint just to make sure it wasn't
lead-based or anything, but he knew that she would notice immediately
and realize his motives. She's was scarily perceptive that way
sometimes, knowing what he wanted before he did. Norman closed his
eyes and laid his cheek on the cool floor. How was he ever going to
explain this to her? The truth, of course, that he'd been clumsy and
knocked it off, that he'd buy her another right away. And she would
see the truth in his eyes and hug him and tell him it was alright,
that it was just a stupid mug, but he knew that it would hurt her. He
gasped as the water shot down a crack in the linoleum and hit his
face. He immediately pushed himself up, letting out a gasp as his
ribs told him they were really
not happy with how he landed and they were going to yell at him until
he did something about it. He ignored that pain and gathered up the
bits of shattered mug before him. He could glue it together. They had
Krazee Glue somewhere in the house. He could glue it together and no
one would be the wiser. He reached a little too quickly for the next
shard and he felt the prick as it drew blood. The porous inside of
the clay rapidly hungrily drank up the drop of blood, staining an
entire side red. Norman bit back a curse and continued methodically
picking up pieces, even the tiny little shards. He brought the double
handful of pieces and gingerly spread them out over the counter. All
in all, there were five big chunks, maybe a dozen smaller bits, and a
number of little splinters. This was doable. It wasn't going to be
easy and he knew she would know the difference immediately, but he
knew he would feel better for having tried. Some part of him voiced a
wish that she wouldn't be back tonight so that he would have time to
put it all together again, and a shiver ran through him as again he
had that feeling that something was terribly, horribly wrong. He
slowly forced his hands to the surface of the counter and held his
weight on them, focusing on the pain of the wound on his finger,
trying to forget what he'd said, to get it out of his head. The car.
He snapped his head back up, remembering where he'd been heading when
he'd knocked the mug off. He hadn't thought to check if her car was
parked on the street. If it wasn't, she was probably just down at the
supermarket or the arcade, having lost track of time and they would
laugh about it and... he was stalling. Norman pushed himself away
from the counter, reeling slightly as the relief hit him. He had a
plan. He would go out there and her car would be gone, and he would
wait for her to get back so they could laugh about it. Already, he
was thinking of some bon mots
to toss out at her when she got back. He walked back through the
living room and went to one of the windows that overlooked the street
and peered out. See, no car... except. He craned his neck, trying to
get a better look down the street where one car looked vaguely
familiar. He cursed the waning daylight and his weakening eyes and
lunged for the door and wrenched it open. As he stepped outside, he
forced himself to slow his movements, to coolly shut the door behind
him. It wouldn't do for the neighbors to start thinking something
weird was going on, after all. Slightly stiff-legged, ribs still
twinging, he walked on down the deserted street toward the suspect
car. It was the right shape, but surely that was the wrong color. He
kept forcing himself forward, even as the night seemed to close in on
the edges of his vision, narrowing it until all he could see was that
traitorous car just standing there defiantly, taunting him with its
solidity and reality. For a moment, he entertained the idea that
maybe one of the neighbors had bought the exact same make, model,
color, but there was the license plate. Norman staggered back into a
tree planted by the walk. A sugar maple, he remembered absently as he
slid down its trunk to sit hard on the ground, his ribs now sending
silver flashes of agony, probably figuring that if he wasn't
listening, their only option was to up the volume. He brought his
knees up and set his elbows on them, pillowing his head on his hands,
just wishing that God would give him a sign, tell him everything was
going to be OK, but all he heard was silence.

“Hey
mister, are ya OK?” a shrill voice piped, shattering his depressed
solitude. Norman lifted his head, feeling like he had a lead weight
attached to the back of it. One of the neighbors kids was standing
there in overalls, hands clasped behind his back, sandy hair
fluttering slightly in the the evening wind. On his face was a
mingled look of concern and fascination, as if he'd happened on a
fluttering bird in the gutter and was wondering if it was going to
die. “It's not your ticker, is it Mister? My pa says that's the
first thing to go, that and your pecker” and the kid gave off a
nervous titter, “though Mom doesn't like it when he says that. I
guess she don't like birds or something, huh?” And the kid peered
at Norman earnestly, evidently aware that he'd slipped in front of an
adult and hoping that he'd managed to pass it off. Norman found
himself chuckling even as he winced as his ribs shifted.

“Yeah,
those birds will get you every time, kid. And I'm OK. I'm just
getting old faster than I thought I would.” The kid took this as
invitation to sit next to Norman, collapsing with easy grace into
sitting Indian-style and immediately commencing to shredding the
innocent grass around him.

“So,
whydja just kind of fall down like that?” There was a not a trace
of guile in the boys voice.

“Oh,
so you saw that?”

“Yeah.
Kinda hard to miss, y'know? One moment, you're staggerin' down the
street and then you like ya seen a ghost and you just fell down. You
sure you're OK?”

“I
think so. It's... it's complicated. It's my wife...” and Norman
found he couldn't go on talking, couldn't explain just why this was
hitting him so hard, couldn't give voice to his fears that something
might have happened... no, he couldn't do that to this kid. Then,
there was the feather-soft touch of a hand on his and he looked up
into the startlingly blue eyes of the kid who'd risen into a half
crouch in front of Norman.

“It's
OK. I know.” Norman had a moment to wonder how the kid knew when he
continued on with his thought, “My gramma died last year. I miss
her too. 'S OK to cry. Mom said so.”

“No...
you've got it wrong. My wife isn't dead. I'm pretty sure of that.
She's just not here. I came home today and she wasn't there and the
water was cold and the mug broke and that's her car and... I'm
scared...” Norman realized he was babbling and forcefully bit back
on his words. The silence stretched out, broken only by the screech
of a car peeling out some blocks away.

“Sounds
like you're having a pretty shitty day,” the kid finally added,
looking up defiantly at Norman as if he might protest the profanity,
“and I think the best thing for ya to do is sleep it off. You're
letting your nightmares run away from you. 'S never as bad as it
looks” And, having dispensed his pithy bits of wisdom, the kid
effortlessly rose to his feet and started walking off without a
backwards look, whistling a vaguely familiar pop tune if a bit
off-key with a fluctuating tempo that kept time with nothing in
particular.

---

I really did have plans for this part, but in fine NaNoWriMo tradition, I found myself getting sidetracked and I never got past the mug part of my plans. *shrug* Eh, it's more words, I guess. Still a little over 5,443 words from where I ought to be by this date though. I got most of the writing done between songs at karaoke at Laurel Lanes. I didn't get as much done as I'd planned to because for the first few hours, it was just me and this one girl trading off on songs, and the situation didn't change significantly all night. But it looks like the bowling alley does good business, so I guess they can afford a loss leader every once in a while.