Phoning this one in...
Hey, today is Free Iced Coffee Day at Dunkin Donuts! I have a lovely gratis Hazelnut jobby sitting here to prove it.
Also, I love this jeans ad:
And good press from DC! One and two... big ups (???) to Scott for liking the play, to Shirley for getting it, and to the cast and crew for being demented rad enough to sign on and kick ass.
What else... dude in the belly likes to punch my guts... I'm currently suffering from a pending-motherhood identity-crisis (as if you hadn't noticed)... writing has slowed to an icy halt due to emotional paralysis... and it seems to be Theatre Benefit Season, which is leaving me reeling a bit. Ours went really well, in case you are interested. If you were there you know. If you weren't, shame on you.
I wish I had more to say to you. I wish I could whip up a wistful, melancholic musing about the changing of the seasons. I wish my screenplay would sell before July so I would have some money to hire baby help. I have some real things to say but I don't have the energy to say them. The other night I wanted a drink so badly I almost got high from wishing so hard. Last night I went to a rock show and I'm scared the little dude will be born deaf.
Also paralyzing: the "To Do" List... Some grant apps to fill out. A play to finish. A play to start. A musical to start. A screenplay to start. A treatment to write. A TV idea to throw away. A novel to work on. And some sorted freelance design. And some shows to see. All before August 8, when the half-Greek changeling appears and we are rendered stupid in love with it.
Did I tell you I burst into tears in the dressing room of Destination Maternity? I was bra-shopping.
Did I tell you I spent fifteen hours the other day on our shower registry? I learned the term "BPA-free". I learned the difference between a bassinet mattress and a moses mattress (answer: none). I learned that sitting still for more than seven hours straight makes me walk like Danny Devito in Batman Returns.
Did I tell you I nearly had to be carried out of Joe's Pub the other night because of my misguided attempt at wearing high-heels with an twenty extra pounds on me?
Last night a large drunk woman approached me in some grimy hotdog stand on Delancey and asked if she could rub my belly. "I love you so much, sweetheart," she shouted at my mid-section. "I'm yo' grandmama! You gonna be just fine!" She then told me she lost her daughter to breast cancer five years ago. She said her daughter was a bitch. She was raising her five grandkids on her own. She felt cheated. All this she said with a huge smile.
The thought that cripples me the most is the fear of loving someone so much. It's too massive. I am so small.
Frustrating post detailing some dude's Odyssean journey trying to sell his laptop on eBay. Worth reading, maybe just to satisfy one's own frustrations with the inanity of customer service practices in the realm of ecommerce.
In other news... I just ate a FULLY DISGUSTING rice crispie treat slathered in peanut butter and chocolate. I knew it was gross even before I put it to my lips, but the creature in my belly insisted I follow through. Child, what hast thou wrought in me??!!
And if you don't have enough to read already today, here's an article from the Huffington Post that pretty much sums up why my support ultimately drifted from Clinton to Obama... I still think her positions on health care are superior, and I have a few quibbles with some other Obama policies, and the sycophantic nature of many Obamaphiles makes me curdle, but... how fucking awesome would it be to have that man representing our country? After eight years of humiliation and despair? Just the thought tingles me.
We now interrupt your regularly scheduled program of self-obsession and extravagant insecurity to bring you this:
Wagon puppies.
Wagon puppies.
Wagon puppies.
Wagon puppies.
And more wagon puppies.
Now go put some puppies in a goddamn wagon, please. It won't be easy. But think of all the good you'll be doing.
Aside from a couple tiny factual errors (born in Queens, raised in Jersey... I don't currently have a day job... etc.), it is relatively cringe-free. And the photo mercifully excludes the belly.
Thank you, oh Gods of Benign Press.
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ADDENDUM: You know, on a second glance, the article feels a bit, I dunno. Like, I write plays on a lark, Soph is my Baby-Daddy, and we are silly and broke and procreating like foolish little rodents. And WHEEEE! Did you know I once had a racy job???? Isn't that DELICIOUS?
Not to be complain-ey... it certainly is rare and special to get an article in the Washington Post... but it's also nice to be taken seriously. Any idea how I can encourage this in the future with reporter-types (aside from changing my gender)?
Hey DC,
We open next week... "we" meaning, they. I've worked with them in the past and they kick boooo-tay. They do. Go see it, please! It's cheap! It's rad! Maybe I'll be there! Look for the round short person stuffing reams of chocolate into her gob!
Yesterday morning this lady came to my tiny Brooklyn apartment to shoot some pix for an upcoming spread in the Washington Post. I woke up exhausted and puffy due to a miserable weekend of preg-related body stuff (I'll spare you). I spent like an hour doing my hair and make-up but only managed to look passable. And all my decent clothes are of course unwearable due to the massive growth in my midsection. All I have are these little poofy maternity blouses that basically scream "goodbye hotness, hello lactation!"
Throughout the shoot I kept trying to look severe and wolfish, like "yeah I know there's a baby growing in me but my plays will EAT YOUR SOUL." But she kept making me smile. "Big smile, that's it, bright eyes..." At some point I said rather timidly, "should we try for, I dunno, something a little um darker?" She was like, "No... You have a nice smile, let's stick with that."
And of course I encouraged her to take some tightly framed head and shoulder shots so I can maybe use the photos again, lest the world think I am perpetually knocked up... but the belly seemed to be a delightful addition to the photo shoot, so I'm pretty sure that's out.
Afterwards I perused her website and found this:
I'm like, come ON. Winehouse gets to give Badass-Face but not Callaghan? Sure, I'm not hitting the pipe on Youtube or beating my husband with a two-by-four in a drunken row... but just because my body may have temporarily lost its edges doesn't mean my work has... so let's get CRUNK, mofo!
That's what I should have said. Rather than slathering on more lipgloss and giggling like a Fraggle.
HOWEVER. If I were someone looking at a photo of me perched on the edge of a bathtub with that carnivorous glare AND an enormous pregnant belly, I would probably be a little frightened for the child. No one wants so see that. We want our future-mothers to be glowing, open vessels, ready to nurture the world. Right?
Ah well. At least I didn't barf on her light meter. Although that woulda been kinda badass-ish... right?
Anyone?
Hi. Go read this. Then let's talk about it. Isn't that how people start shit?
Related... we're gonna try cloth diapers. We read this horrifying statistic about how plastic diapers comprise two percent of all landfills. Even the Seventh Generation disposables take 300 fucking years to bio-degrade.
We're also trying to get in on this summer vegetable exchange in our neighborhood, where we pick up deliveries from local farms. We currently get boxes of veggies from Urban Organics, but I'm pretty sure those bananas they give us each week weren't grown upstate.
We're awesome. We are FUCKING AWESOME. We're gonna save the goddamn planet. We're burning a bonfire of all our bad habits, people... come get high on the fumes of our righteousness.
Seriously? I have no idea how to talk about this stuff. I can't even bring it up with my closest friends, some of whom have admitted they would rather live with the low-grade guilt of their choices than deal with the inconvenience of green alternatives. So how does one discuss this without sounding/being sanctimonious or assholey? Is posting a thoughtful article on one's blog enough? (No.)
Man, suddenly everything feels dire to me. Probably because I'm reading this. Don't read it if you are easily terrified... it'll mess with your (my) head.
I can think of at least six things off the top of my head that are terribly terribly wrong with this toy. You can too, I'll bet.
My immediate thoughts:
- How long can a child play with a slutty horse before the inevitable occurs? And which doll will be the victim of this assault? (My money is on Cool Shavin' Ken.)
- What could that horse POSSIBLY be carrying in its purse except hay and shit? (Oh, and mascara, I suppose.)
- How is that horse even carrying that purse?!!
- Do we really need another example of how Paris Hilton has oozed her way into our collective unconscious?
- Is the blatant sexualization of farm animals back in vogue? And why?
- HIGH HEELS?
- What could that horse POSSIBLY be carrying in its purse except hay and shit? (Oh, and mascara, I suppose.)
Feel free to add to the list... though I'd wager it's about infinite.
