You know, say what you will about the increasingly public nature of internet culture; sometimes, all that consolidation isn't such a bad thing. Like, say, when a crash on your subway line makes the national news? One announcement on Facebook, a little wave of the hand to say everything's okay, and voila. Concerned phone calls down 90%. (Not that I mind concerned phone calls. Thanks for checking in! You know who you are.)
So, no, I was not on the red line train that crashed. All is well, for me.
Also, some day (one hopes July 2), I will use my spare time in ways that do not involve writing a script for a July 1 deadline, or thinking about the ways in which my script for the July 1 deadline is not moving as quickly as it should. Some day!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
12 of 12: June
So, who has two thumbs and totally spaced on 12 of 12? This girl!
Except that--lucky you!--there are a good six hours between work and bedtime, i.e. plenty of time to carefully document...my Friday night in. You can't believe it, right? I know. It's like Bridget Jones's Diary, but only the spinsterish parts, and minus the choosing of vodka and Chaka Khan. (Or so you THINK!)
6:04 - Nothing like a good Friday-afternoon bed sprawl to celebrate the coming weekend goodness. Plus, you know. I have a theme going with the whole bed thing.
6:05 - I am, apparently, not the only one excited about this whole "coming home from work/undoing effects of uncomfortable office furniture" turn of events. I strive to be a good kitty pillow.
6:17 - My staple pizza dough, without which I would starve, all kneaded up and ready to sit. I use Deb's recipe, except that I use a full teaspoon of yeast and I'm not nearly patient enough to wait 20 minutes after punching down; the dough doesn't seem to mind much.
6:33 - Walking to Starbucks; talking bus tickets to New York for my friends' epic East Coast visit next month.
6:40 - Starbucks, the only coffee shop within walking distance and, recently, my favorite place to get out of myhead apartment and write. PSA: Those new chocolate madeleines = the food of the gods, surprisingly chocolately, and v. good for inspiration (obviously).
7:50 - Much of DC is too flat and/or crowded to give good horizon, but way up here on the hill that is Northwest, there's at least an effort at a sunset. It's nice.
7:59 - Prepped ingredients for my standard pizza--sauceless, Arizmendi-style, because I can more or less handle keeping cheese, garlic, and bagged spinach in the house. Anything else is just icing, or gravy, or something else that doesn't go with pizza at all.
8:07 - Assembled. The dough went a bit heavy--something about the humidity, maybe?--but cheese and garlic cover a multitude of sins.
8:19 - Twelve minutes at 475. Perfect in a way that only perfect (well, perfect except for heavy dough) homemade pizza can be.
8:30 - If there's anything I need beside pizza from scratch, a sleepy cat, and John Hodgman on The Daily Show (segment title: "You're Welcome, America"), I don't want to think about it.
9:12 - Yes, I fold laundry to The Daily Show. Yes, this took me an episode and a half to finish. Yes, it had been sitting (clean) in the laundry basket since Monday. Stop looking at me like that.
10:11 - Spending more quality time with the script (for the Disney fellowship, if you must know); also checking out some music from Amanda's writing playlist, because sharing music makes us better writers. Or something. Maybe she's just really nice. (She is.)
So, wow. Aren't you glad you were here for the play-by-play on sauceless pizza and week-old laundry? You're welcome, America.
Except that--lucky you!--there are a good six hours between work and bedtime, i.e. plenty of time to carefully document...my Friday night in. You can't believe it, right? I know. It's like Bridget Jones's Diary, but only the spinsterish parts, and minus the choosing of vodka and Chaka Khan. (Or so you THINK!)
6:04 - Nothing like a good Friday-afternoon bed sprawl to celebrate the coming weekend goodness. Plus, you know. I have a theme going with the whole bed thing.
6:05 - I am, apparently, not the only one excited about this whole "coming home from work/undoing effects of uncomfortable office furniture" turn of events. I strive to be a good kitty pillow.
6:17 - My staple pizza dough, without which I would starve, all kneaded up and ready to sit. I use Deb's recipe, except that I use a full teaspoon of yeast and I'm not nearly patient enough to wait 20 minutes after punching down; the dough doesn't seem to mind much.
6:33 - Walking to Starbucks; talking bus tickets to New York for my friends' epic East Coast visit next month.
6:40 - Starbucks, the only coffee shop within walking distance and, recently, my favorite place to get out of my
7:50 - Much of DC is too flat and/or crowded to give good horizon, but way up here on the hill that is Northwest, there's at least an effort at a sunset. It's nice.
7:59 - Prepped ingredients for my standard pizza--sauceless, Arizmendi-style, because I can more or less handle keeping cheese, garlic, and bagged spinach in the house. Anything else is just icing, or gravy, or something else that doesn't go with pizza at all.
8:07 - Assembled. The dough went a bit heavy--something about the humidity, maybe?--but cheese and garlic cover a multitude of sins.
8:19 - Twelve minutes at 475. Perfect in a way that only perfect (well, perfect except for heavy dough) homemade pizza can be.
8:30 - If there's anything I need beside pizza from scratch, a sleepy cat, and John Hodgman on The Daily Show (segment title: "You're Welcome, America"), I don't want to think about it.
9:12 - Yes, I fold laundry to The Daily Show. Yes, this took me an episode and a half to finish. Yes, it had been sitting (clean) in the laundry basket since Monday. Stop looking at me like that.
10:11 - Spending more quality time with the script (for the Disney fellowship, if you must know); also checking out some music from Amanda's writing playlist, because sharing music makes us better writers. Or something. Maybe she's just really nice. (She is.)
So, wow. Aren't you glad you were here for the play-by-play on sauceless pizza and week-old laundry? You're welcome, America.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
A funny thing happened...
I'm watching the Tony Awards, and I can't help thinking that the world would be a much better place if we did more singing and dancing. Preferably at the same time.
Watching the ceremony on TV is a victory in itself, for me. I can't remember the last time--maybe never?--that I made a mental note to watch the Tonys and then actually remembered to sit down and watch them. So, good job there, self.
For fifteen years, at least, I have thought that I would like--in a completely vague and unrealistic way--to be a professional chorus member. (Before that, I wanted to be an actor, with lines and possibly whole songs to myself, but that was before I realized that I may actually have negative stage presence, and a passable singing voice even on a good day.) I don't want a speaking part; I don't want to sing alone in front of anybody that doesn't answer to the name of Sherlock. I just want to dress up, learn complicated choreography, and belt it out with the rest of the group. And, yeah, I know: poverty and competition and years of training and endless drama of the non-staged variety. It can't be easy. But even when it isn't easy, it's got to be at least a little bit fun. They wouldn't be doing it if it weren't.
The opening number for the Tonys is a medley from all of the nominated musicals; this year's ended with "Let the Sun Shine In," first by the cast of Hair and then incorporating everybody else. It was amazing, and knowing as I do the sensation of choral singing, I know what they were thinking. They were thinking, "Dang. We sound good." Which they did, even through 300 miles and my TV set, enough to make me want to help them out with my own mad, imaginary chorus-member skillz. So I've decided to issue an invitation: Broadway, any time you would like me to join you--you know, just for the weekend--I believe I could clear my schedule. Until then, I will be over here in the corner with the Wicked soundtrack on repeat and practicing the three tap-dance steps I know (shuffle, ball-change, fuh-lap! fuh-lap!) over and over. And over. Call me!
Watching the ceremony on TV is a victory in itself, for me. I can't remember the last time--maybe never?--that I made a mental note to watch the Tonys and then actually remembered to sit down and watch them. So, good job there, self.
For fifteen years, at least, I have thought that I would like--in a completely vague and unrealistic way--to be a professional chorus member. (Before that, I wanted to be an actor, with lines and possibly whole songs to myself, but that was before I realized that I may actually have negative stage presence, and a passable singing voice even on a good day.) I don't want a speaking part; I don't want to sing alone in front of anybody that doesn't answer to the name of Sherlock. I just want to dress up, learn complicated choreography, and belt it out with the rest of the group. And, yeah, I know: poverty and competition and years of training and endless drama of the non-staged variety. It can't be easy. But even when it isn't easy, it's got to be at least a little bit fun. They wouldn't be doing it if it weren't.
The opening number for the Tonys is a medley from all of the nominated musicals; this year's ended with "Let the Sun Shine In," first by the cast of Hair and then incorporating everybody else. It was amazing, and knowing as I do the sensation of choral singing, I know what they were thinking. They were thinking, "Dang. We sound good." Which they did, even through 300 miles and my TV set, enough to make me want to help them out with my own mad, imaginary chorus-member skillz. So I've decided to issue an invitation: Broadway, any time you would like me to join you--you know, just for the weekend--I believe I could clear my schedule. Until then, I will be over here in the corner with the Wicked soundtrack on repeat and practicing the three tap-dance steps I know (shuffle, ball-change, fuh-lap! fuh-lap!) over and over. And over. Call me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)