stage fright...

... can be sort of explained on Wikipedia's entry on Glossophobia - meaning the fear of speaking in front of people. To those who suffer from stage fright - it extends to performing of any kind. Situations that can and have previously inspired this particular feeling include: recitals, opening nights, proms, first read- or sing- throughs, first dress rehearsals, auditions, either singing or cold read, going to a new place for the first time, and first dates, especially blind dates.

Symptoms can include such things as butterflies, loss of hearing, disctractedness, nausea, gastro-intestinal distress, heart flutterings, catches in the breath, small instances of euphoria, numbness in the hands, gas, and soreness of the abdominal muslces due to holding one's breath.

Other symptoms can also result in the application of far too much makeup and hairspray, which is bad for the pores and the hair. Not to mention the wearing of shorter skirts than usual, higher heels, and the sinking suspicion that none of this is helping anyhow. And then it could result in the feeling that one is wasting one's time anyhow, because one is as ugly as a post after all, and no amount of paint will disguise an ugly post. And then one may just drink too much, and do things she won't be able to tell her friends later.

The best way to counterract some of the more negative effects of stage fright are to; drink before going out, and thereby stave off nerves, apply more makeup and change the clothes a half dozen times, and then go back to the original outfit that you feel comfortable in all day anyhow, take another shower, re-do the hair and curse at the fact that it's STILL raining. Or take a nap and miss the whole thing altogether.

One thinks in fragments:

More lipstick?
Redder Lipstick?
OW!
Goddamn door handle/table edge, oven door, any sharp thing that can be run in to!
Curlers or Iron?
Have I touched up my toes yet?
Crap! Nail polish on carpet!
I need to eat.
I'm going to throw up any minute.
I wish I had done my roots two weeks ahead of time.
GAH! Spray nozzle on fave perfume stick open!
I don't have time to shower again!
I'll just call and say I'm late.
I'll just call and say I'm dead.
I don't have his number!
I need to eat.
I'm going to throw up any minute.
Coffee!
Great, now I'm completely wired.
Goddamn rain!
Maybe if I listen to Bonnie Tyler a hundred times, it'll make the time go faster.
Maybe if I hide he won't notice this giant blemish.
More mascara!
Ow! My eyes!
Crap - contact fell out! Into pot of bright red lipstick! No cleaning solution!
I look like an idiot in my glasses.
I can't see out of my glasses.
I want to cry.
I'll just call and say I'm late.
I'll just call and say I'm dead.
Wait, have I eaten today?
What day is today?
I need to eat.
I'm going to throw up any minute.
Am I really this ugly?
I've got a headache.
I need tea.
I need a cigarette.
I need valium.

I'm so nervous.

delirium...

...has set in and is putting up curtains. I got about 3.5 hours of sleep, and I haven't quite started hallucinating, but I'm getting damn close. and so I'm resting my addled brain a little (or even a lot) and reading Wikipedia - which is way better than any old stuffy Encyclopedia Britannica, thanks - and I found that one article on flirting from Psychology Today. (click the headerline of this post to be magically transported)

I love this sentence:
"The moment of attraction, in fact, mimics a kind of brain damage."
and this:
"In attraction, we don't stop and think, we react, operating on a "gut" feeling, with butterflies, giddiness, sweaty palms and flushed faces brought on by the reactivity of the emotional brain. We suspend intellect at least long enough to propel us to the next step in the mating game-flirtation."

I do believe that I've posted about this article, because I fixated on the "ideal waist-to-hip ratio" thing. Now, I really don't care. I suppose its a direct result of the fact that I'm exhausted, and going out again tonight. Ah, the life of the free-wheeling blonde. I forgot how much sleep I don't get when I'm single.

tedium

Has descended and flopped itself on my desk. I'm barely awake, it's FREAKING COLD, and I hate my bran snacks. But on the plus side, I can listen to my tunes, and try to keep my mind off my crush.

My desk is obscenely neat. I have one pen and one tiny little pad of green stickies out. But at least I have my hula girl. And my damn wrist hurts - too much typing.

still acting like a teenager...

..and aided an abetted by my friends.

"He likes you." "He's totally flirting with you." They say with big cheesy grins. Riiight.

In other news - I love Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. I shouldn't have been born in this era. I belong in the fifties. Back then I'm sure the bleaching methods were much harsher on hair, but hey. No Twiggy to mess up the curvy woman ideal. at least she hadn't been seen yet.

I'm totally bored at work - but I did get a kickin' new pair of headphones, with a long cord (2m). Now I don't have to lay on the floor to listen to my swing music. It just wouldn't do in the way cute skirt I'm wearing today. And it's freakin' COLD in here. The last building/room/office space thing was Africa HOT, and when I'm cold, eveyone else has icicles hanging off their noses.

I've lost my mind...

I totally have a crush on a friend of mine. Damn it. I'm supposed to go a whole thirty days without thinking about boys, and here I am thinking about boys. One in particular. He even has gorgeous blue eyes. Feh.

In other news, we've been officially set up, or rather, I have. I had that one little box, and I was all set by about 12:15 this afternoon. Plus I have a new bookcase (for home that is). All in all a fairly cush deal today. The only problem is that I am now crashingly bored. I've reached a state of boredom in which any thought of actually doing something makes me irritable. It's a paradox I am unable to explain.

I hate having crushes. I'm all giggly and can't wait to see him again. When will I ever grow up?

Feh

a gothing we will go...

... I've finished packing my one box and my file cabinet - I've found yet another internet gem. It's called pushindaisies.com. I cannot even begin to describe how goth this freakin' site is.

It's got dried dead roses in gift boxes, human heart and brain shaped chocolates (in a category called, appropriately enough, "death by chocolate"). It has toe tags, funeral banners and signs, and these precious little notecards with an ink drawing of a hearse outside a cemetery. Did I mention the do-it-yourself embalming kit?

Here's the description: "These are the items used in real embalmings! All items are new and unused. Each kit comes with 2 eye caps, a mouth former, 2 injector needles, trocar button, 1 pair latex gloves, 2 toe tags (1 printed and 1 non-printed), and an embalming report. This is a unique collectible kit to get a glimpse of the tools of the trade. This is not a toy and is for novelty and collector purposes only. Please do not try this at home."

Uh - oh.

Go. GO NOW.

packing up and moving...

...this time it's the office move to another building. Fortunately, I haven't had sufficient time to collect a bunch of crap.

This is a good thing, since I took Benadryl® last night and could barely get my sorry a** out of bed this moring. I drank three cups of coffee, and still felt fuzzy and out of it. and then I managed to cut the crap out of the back of my leg, which thre off my morning schedule.

I was stuck in the middle of th "life is so hard" thing today. It seemed like the biggest effort just to get out of bed. Even though I actually remembered to set the delay brew on the coffee maker. I'm blocking out the commute too. Perhaps I should get a boy to make me breakfast and do my hair for me, so all I have to do is stare off into space for half an hour.

oh yes...

Lookee! I've finally found the ultimate mad libs - and they're on line. Click the header of this post to creat your own Darkly Gothic Poetry. This one is mine.

Too much vivaldi is bad for the constitution. I couldn't help myself.

oh no...

It's now officially spring (even though on the vernal equinox it was POURING). This, of course, means we'll se our clocks forward on April 2nd. So that monday, the universe will turn in on itself. I will be unable to wake up properly. I will be irritable.

I hate mornings as it is. I have to set my alarm clock ahead of time, so that I can lie abed and stare at the ceiling. I don't think of anything, I just stare. I do everything the night before, like packing up the South Beach lunch, setting the delay brew for the coffee, and doing the uber Capricorn thing.

It doesn't help that it still feels like I'm visiting my new apartment. I need stuff on the walls.

I passed! にほんご rules...

... I looked up my grade in にほんご (nihongo - Japanese class) and I got a 96.7%. All the trumpets are sounding in a souza-like way, with out of tune piccolos and slightly flat horns. WOOHOO! I was having a minor|medium anxiety attack on friday night, because I just couldn't settle down and study. I felt okay with the writing, but the major stumbling block was the speaking. I woke up super early (5am) and studied some more. She'd given us a list of 70 sentences in English, and we went around and had to think of the sentence in Japanese. I nearly died, but then I calmed down. And all else went sort of well. I had already overreacted and thought - well, I can always repeat the course, and have even more practice. But now, I don't need to worry. I got the fourth highest score!

I vow I will study more often next time - because it only gets harder....

I love Midol...

...Seriously. I don't know what's in it, but I love it. It took my horrible cramps and made metaphorical mincemeat of them. I was able to move about last night, and only eat one container of BK fries, with ranch dressing. I'm sure that otherwise it would have been two or even three containers of the grease-ridden starchy goodness.

The other sovereign remedy for what ails me once a month (or in this case, once in more than a month, due to stress) is either watching Shaun of the Dead, or listening to parts of the soundtrack.

Liz: "They're for your mum, aren't they?"
Shaun: "Yeah."
Liz: "Smooth."

I managed to spend about $90 at a fabulous new store yesterday. I got frivolous things, like matching tumblers in really cool colors for the bathroom. I think I'll have finished my bathroom first, because it's the smallest room. I also got these tray things, three of them. I think they're originally meant to be wine chargers (whatever the hell that is). They're all different sizes, one is holding one of my bathroom cups on the sink. One is holding a giant candle I got for my 35th, and another is holding the survivors of The Great Lipstick Purge of '06.

In case anyone was wondering, The Great Lipstick Purge of '06 was an horrific massacre of lipcolor, lipliner, and pots of balm and gloss that happened just yesterday, around 4:30 p.m. It was Lip Makeup Cleansing, and no doubt of it. I'm ashamed and horrified that I let those little buggers stay around so long. Long enough that they began to smell of their constituents, and develop little beads of white stuff (rising moisturizers). EUW. I still have over 20 under-six-month old tubes and pots and pencils and little-paddy-applicators, so I don't feel so bad.

I want grease, fat, and deep fried lard patties....

yay!

Loreena McKennit's music is FINALLY on the iTunes Music Store. It's about damn time, is all I have to say. I'm in the last half hour of my lunchtime, which nobody watches here anyway. I'm becoming an old boring fuddy duddy. I have the same thing pretty much every day. Of course, it doesn't helop that I'm back on the South Beach diet, nor that I'm extending my phase 1 adherence. Boring boring boring.

This was lunch:
Bottomless Chinese Chicken Salad - which consists of lettuce, chinese cabbage, (which has a slightly astringent taste) shredded carrot bits, poppy seeds (thank goodness there is no drug testing in my future. It just would not DO to test positive for opiates), cilantro, and peanutty good dressing

500ML of Smart Water. Which appreantly is better than just regular water for unknowable reasons.

Boring.

I didn't even cheat today. No cheetos in the machine, which is a good reason to be good.

And the calves aren't hurting much either. Managed not to fall down the 44 steps, which was a big improvement.

Huzzah!

tiger balm...

... will be my best friend for the next week. I am now a proud resident of my favorite town, Alameda. I (along with much help from three tireless members of my family and three stellar friends). There are exactly 44 vertical steps up to my apartment, and I think I climbed them at least 20 times yesterday. I don't even think I'm exaggerating. At least my calves are feeling it, and it'll be even worse tomorrow.

I've reached that miraculous age where one doesn't feel the results of one's strenous activity until two days later. This means that since I climbed yesterday - tomorrow I will not be wearing high heels, lest I fall down those 44 steps in a fit of abject agony.

Even though I have yet to retrieve the bulk of my stuff - I feel as if I've got a very good start. It is true that I have 1 and a half bottle of water in the fridge, and nothing on the walls, but I DON"T CARE. It's mine, all mine! Muahahaha.

oh the INCOMPETENCE...

...instead of "oh the HUMANITY". As my three readers will no doubt remember, I am big into theatre and performing and designing for theatre. Specifically community and semi-pro theatre and opera. I've actually been paid to be a singer, an actor, a dancer, a costume, lighting and prop designer. I've even done volunteer prop running and stagehand work, simply for the joy of telling stories with imaginary people. Or even playing those imagingary people. I'm all about pretend and escapism. In the course of my insatiable quest for both the former, I've learned a great deal about how theatres run, and how much fun it's supposed to be. Let's face it, it doesn't pay, and one does it out of passion for the art itself.

Now, one of those theatres is having their annual benefit lukewarm buffet this weekend, with silent auction items, and members of the governing board that like nothing better than to congratulate themselves. They don't give out volunteer awards, or awards for performing or design, they give THEMSELVES awards. I think one of the awards whould be "Best Attempt at Strangling the Chavinistic Artistic Director."

Anyhow, I was on this board for a little less than a year, and consequently got more grey hairs (which are thankfully all hidden by the bleach). Apparently, according to a phone call I got from the remaining board member I still talk to (sometimes) I am to receive an award. I had heard about it second hand, and mentioned this (considering I'm actually packing this saturday evening, rather than paying $35 to schmooze and get an unframed laser printed piece of paper, and to get sick from substandard buffet food) to the person in question. And supposedly he told the president, with whom I don't get along, to put a special notice in my invitation, that I'd be getting this "honor". Did this happen? No.

Apparently I was so invaluable to the board that they couldn't even get their acts together to try and throw a person a bone. Did they call me and let me know in time to PLAN to be there? Did I get a letter or even a chintzy little note in the HORRIBLE invite? No. I didn't officially find out about this award until 1 day before.

Nice.

And the invitation? Handed off to a very nice guy, who put some stars on, and they printed it on YELLOW paper at Kinko's.

I am mystified. Why is it that people can't be more professional? I realize that I work in a rareified world of the best of the best of the best. But damn.

Thanks be to every god in the cosmos that I didn't stay there.

straight man intuition

What is up with this? Somehow, straight men have intuition. I never would have thunk it. I mean, they are chromosomally challenged, after all. Bless their hearts, they just can't help it. But I'm continually hit over the head with men's intuition. Over the last month, just when I'm experiencing my own "Free At Last" moment, somehow they all know! There must be some astral bulletin board, or they read something in my demeanor or they see auras or something.

I'm perplexed.

the speech...

I'm working on re-wording and updating and basically PLAGIARIZING the "I Have a Dream" speech, by the venerable late Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I've only gotten about two thirds of the way, and it sometimes sounds like a feminist rant, but all I want say is "Free at last, free at last, thank THE GODDESS almighty, I am free at last....

**let me just say, that this man was gifted with the golden tongue, and I do this in praise, as opposed to satire.

>>Ten Months ago, a great American, in whose blog we read words of querulous complaint, found herself a possible KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR. This momentous event came as a great beacon light of hope to a bottle blonde who had been seared in the flames of withering iniquity of love's slings and arrows. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of boredom and loneliness. But two hundred and ninety-five days later, we had to face the tragic fact that the blonde is still not free.

Two hundred and ninety-five days later, the life of the blonde is still sadly crippled by the manacles of co-dependence and the chains of plebian lack of motivation. Two hundred and ninety-five days later, the blonde lives on a lonely island of intellectualism in the midst of a vast ocean of bored conformity. Two hundred and ninety-five days later, the blonde is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds herself an exile in her own land.

So we have come here today to proclaim an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to the blogisphere to cash a check. When the architects of our favorite fairy tales wrote the magnificent words of the Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, they were signing a promissory note to which every dreamer was to fall heir.

This note was a promise that all women would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that The Authors have defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of double x chromosomes are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, The Authors have given the Female Dreamer a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of Fantasy is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of dreams and illusions of this nation.

So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of illusion and the security of happiness. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind The Authors of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of reality to the sunlit path of true love. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of The Goddess's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of irony and sarcasm to the solid rock of faith in ourselves.

It would be fatal for the each of us to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Female Dreamer. This sweltering summer of the Dreamer's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of romance and real manhood. Two thousand and six is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Dreamer needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the men of our acquaintance return to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility for anyone until we are granted rights of hope for a better man.
The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of your illusions until the bright day of real men emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of fairy tales. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into delusion. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting reality with soul force.
The marvelous new legitimacy which has engulfed the Dreamer community must not lead us to distrust of all men, for many of our gay brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of fairy tales, "When will you be satisfied?" we can never be satisfied as long as we, heavy-hearted with the fatigue of the search, cannot gain the deep respect owed to us as human beings. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Dreamer's basic right of romance is denied and trampled. We can never be satisfied as long as women are subjected to lack of romance and paying for her partner at the movies. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

mindless drivel...

The Day After (the Oscars) dawned partly cloudy and not too cold. There was little fallout. I managed to get my happy self out of bed at the right time (an occurence altogether too too seldom. I've been having the weirdest dreams lately, and as soon as I move I'll actually start keeping consistent records of the weirdness.

This weekend I bought: a shower curtain, six towels, a shower caddy, some flatware, and dishes. I became wearied after slogging through saturday afternoon traffic in Bed Bath & Beyond. A dear friend told me, after telling her of my ill-advised trip to the Valhalla of linens and obscure kitchen gadgets, that one doesn't go in without a list, unless one wants a headache. I discovered this for myself, after it took me 45 minutes to pick out a shower curtain. And I couldn't decide between a regular old shower curtain liner or the "premium weight" style, so of course I spent waaay too much.

I did manage to get a 16 piece dish set from World Market for about $8. It's scary blue and gold, but I think I can do other things with it. Like paint polka dots on it or something. And Mervyn's had a huuuge sale - I got six towels for about $30. Yay!
I sign off with a smattering of what I'm listening to:

Sway |The Pussycat Dolls
He's a Tramp|Peggy Lee
Battle Without Honor or Humanity|布袋寅泰
Groove Is In the Heart|Deee-Lite
Holding Out for a Hero|Bonnie Tyler
Stupid Girls|P!nk
Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)|Nancy Sinatra & Billy Strange
Fever|Peggy Lee
Raks africa|Dinletir
Complainte de la Butte|Rufus Wainwright
Santa Maria (Del Buen Ayre)|Gotan Project
Ain't That a Kick In the Head|Dean Martin
I'm Outta Love|Anastasia
Come a Little Bit Closer|Jay And The Americans
Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)|Concrete Blonde
Erase-Rewind|The Cardigans
Death Letter|The White Stripes
Voodoo Lady|Ween
Bela Lugosi's Dead|Bauhaus

it is now time...

...to update another list.

But first, the news. I have a sinus headache. I've only had two cups of coffee so far and it is already 9:41 am. My desk is a mess, though not as messy as it could be. I've discovered blogthings.com. I'm loving the personality test thing. I'm listening to Julie London. My diet is working, or at least my jeans are slipping, which means I have to hike them up all the time. I've got on my kick-butt boots with four inch heels. My hair just didn't work this morning. I have a whole 'nother week until I get my roots done, and my wrist is killing me. I really need to learn to type. I'm freaking out about moving.

And now for the list of things I cannot live without today:

green beans - steamed wih minimal spice: they keep well and make a good 3 pm South Beach snack.
ibuprofen - four of the little buggers should kick my headache in about a half hour
realkana.com - great practice for studying hiragana (1 of 3 japanese writing systems)
coconut lime verbena body spray
silver sparkly nail varnish
50's torch singers
the internet
my cell phone

more later, maybe - time for more coffee

I'm overwhelmed...

...by floral prints today. Save me, O mighty Spirit of the Universe (insert name here). Liberate me from the tyranny of Laura Ashley. Rescue me from cabbage roses and ivy. Solidarity for Solids!

As I am preparing to move, and making endless lists of the things I'll need, my mind has turned (naturally) to the assortment of textile type products and objects that go into any well- (or ill-) planned abode. I've determined that since I can make period costumes out of eggshells and duct tape and staples, I can certainly fabricate some of what I need.

Tablecloths. Placemats. Panels and sheers and drapey type things to clock out the horrible sun. Pillows. Tea cozies. Closet organizers.

I also decided that I didn't want to do any of the math for this crap, so I went a-hunting for some patterns. I love sewing patterns. They're easy to get (unless they're out of print), easy to use, and have directions on how to make the thing in question printed right there. Clear as a sunny day in the Rockies.

But noooo. These pattern people have made all the examples in the photos that appear on said pattern packages out of the leftover scraps from some deranged quilting bee. Horrid stripes, terrible prints, and eye-blinding eyelets abound. Not only do I need to squint my eyes just to see the shape of the thing, but I need to use my imagination to see just what MY choices of fabric may look like. This last isn't all that hard for me, but to enduring the horror of the pictures is certainly draining.

Maybe I should just cave and do the damn math.